OQ One Shots, smut and angst and fluff
by Tbuddah
Summary: Outlaw Queen one shots, all ratings. Mostly from prompts. Enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

_Just some fluffy smut because that is where my mind is right now. I haven't written much of this stuff before so be kind. Let me know if it is awful. Enjoy!_

Her bed is soft, always has been. When she was a girl, she sought refuge from Cora in the twisted blankets and cozy warmth, and as an adult, her bed has provided her with the same comfort, the same escape.

In the castle, trapped in her atrocious marriage, she refused to accept Leopold in her own bed. She would always walk through the halls, dark and dreary, step after step until she arrived at his bedchamber, never hers, the one thing she could hold onto, the one comfort she could have, and he never seemed to care, why would he?

As the evil queen she would revel in the fine fabrics, revel in the freedom to lay all day if she so chose, basking in the solace of her dark heart and her dark sheets and her dark space. She had nothing to lose then.

The freedom she feels now is different, the comfort far more pleasurable, more immense. She is completely naked, not a shred of clothing covering her flesh from Robin's hands, or mouth, or tongue. The soft material of her bedding, and the sinking coziness of her mattress make her feel safe, secure, warm, and protected. Or is that him?

Either way, the feeling of his flushed skin against hers, his scruff between her thighs, has her gripping the soft fabric on her bed, twisting it in her fingers, while his mouth brings her the comfort, the solace she seeks, and so much more.

She is sweaty, a sheen settling over her skin as he licks and sucks at her until she is writhing, cumming with his name on her lips, tugging at his hair and shoulders insistently until he rises, his mouth meeting hers in a hungry wet kiss. Her body trembles and quakes with pleasure, and she smiles, almost laughs, because she never expected this, never could have hoped for any of it.

He smiles with her, a smirk against her lips, trailing down to the heated flesh at her jaw, her neck, until she is lifting her legs, squeezing him between her thighs, and wrapping around him, inviting him. His smirk falters, lips opening in a different shape, a moan spilling out as the tip of his erection meets her entrance.

He moves slowly, slides inside of her achingly so, stretching her, and she can still feel slight spasms from earlier clenching on his hardness. He thrusts languidly, building her arousal again, his mouth and fingers working at her nipples, and she is still dazed by the relief she feels being with him, being in her bed, and how she didn't think she could ever feel so much contentment.

Moans and gasps leave her lips, her breath mingling with his as he thrusts harder and deeper, one of his hands having found leverage behind her thigh, under her knee, while the other is massaging her clit in a way that makes her muscles clench in anticipation. She is so close, and the sounds coming from Robin tell her he is as well.

With each thrust he hits a spot inside her, just the right spot to bring a dull burst of pleasure every time his hips meet hers. His thumb teases her clit, and she opens her eyes just as he thrusts hard, just as he brushes roughly against her, and the fulfilled look staring back at her sends her over the edge. Her muscles clutch and grip at him, harsh moans and breaths heaving her lungs, and he finishes with another deep thrust that has both of them quaking and throbbing.

Her eyes are closed, but she is awake. She can hear his breathing, slow and steady, the rise of his chest against hers as his arms embrace her even in sleep. The fabric of her sheets, the softness of her mattress, they still bring her the comfort she has always clung to, but now, now she feels a comfort she has never known, the comfort of her soulmate's body against her's, and she revels in the contentment of the love she feels surrounding her.


	2. Chapter 2

The wall is cold and hard against her bare back, but she doesn't mind, can't bring herself to care.

Not when Robin's bare chest is against hers, his lips searing a path along her jaw, down to her shoulder.

She wonders how she got here. How one minute she was telling him to leave, telling him to forget her, and the next they are both half naked against a wall in her vault. In the end it doesn't really matter, because clearly, neither of them are stopping this.

A fact she is well aware of as his hands roughly push her dress down past her hips, the red fabric pooling at her feet, then kicked aside. Blood pumps through her veins, her heart pounding in her ears, and his quick paced breaths match her own.

Her hand moves between them, removing the last bit of fabric between her hand and his arousal. She grips his length, and a gasp leaves his mouth, his lips leave her neck as his forehead meets hers, and her name leaves his lips like a prayer, just a whisper.

He spills his heart to her. Tells her how much he loves her, how he refuses to forget her, how he _can't, won't _forget her.

Her stomach twists at his words, guilt and anguish thrumming through her body. They shouldn't do this, she should stop this. He looks broken, and it is clear he loathes himself for these actions as much as she does herself, yet neither of them let go.

His hand finds a way to her wet center. Two fingers inside of her, his thumb rubbing her clit, and she is so wet, so turned on, and she hates herself for it, hates herself for this weakness, but she won't stop, can't stop herself anymore than he can stop himself.

Her hands move to his face, pulling his mouth to hers. She can't hear him speak, can't hear the misery pouring from his lips any longer. She will take this moment, she will revel in this, because she knows it won't last. This is the end.

He slips his fingers from her, a whimper leaving her throat at the absence, until he is lifting her, bracing her against the wall that no longer seems cold, but still scrapes into her back harshly. Good, she thinks to herself, she should feel pain, at least some pain, she deserves far worse.

He glides himself into her slowly, waits for her muscles to stretch and relax around him before he is moving his hips, thrusting back and forth, filling her to the hilt, hitting that spot inside of her with each push.

Her eyes are screwed shut. She is so afraid to open them, so afraid to see the loathing she feels for herself reflected back in his eyes, so they remain closed, and in the darkness, she can almost fool herself, almost pretend that this isn't the end, but only the beginning.

One of his hands moves up from her thigh, finds her nipple and twists, tugs, until she is moaning and gasping, feeling her pleasure building low in her belly.

His mouth moves to her pulse point, sucking and licking, then breathing heavily over the damp skin, sending chills through her.

His movements are anxious now, thrusts becoming hard and deep, and his hand moves from her nipple, finds her clit, and begins fondling, teasing, then rubbing, and she is so wet, so slick.

She feels herself clenching, tightening, and then a sudden release and pleasure sinks into her body as she topples over the ledge, cums with a whisper of his name.

Her back arches as he continues to pound into her, finding his own release until his hips are stilled, holding her in place as he softens inside of her.

He doesn't let go of her. Even after her feet are back to the floor, he can't seem to pull himself away, like their flesh has been forever bonded, soldered together, and part of her wishes it was true.

She pulls her clothing on quietly. Shame fills her mind as the high leaves her body, the ecstasy of their joined flesh slowly forgotten.

When she turns to him, he is dressed again also, and she briefly wonders how long it has been, how long she was lost in self-loathing. She figures it doesn't matter anyway, this is the end.

As she offers him the glass, a dark amber liquid sloshing from side to side, he smiles at her. Just a small, guilty smile, and his mouth spills forth reassurances. His words tell her that everything will be alright, that they can be together, that he chooses her, his soulmate.

When she lifts her own glass to her lips, he does the same, and with a tilt of his hand, with a swirl of brown liquid down his throat, she knows, they can't be together, everything won't be alright, but he will be.

His eyes fog, and his gaze looks glassy and confused as she guides him up the stairway of her vault. She leaves him there, leaves him in the Storybrooke cemetery. He'll find his way home, he'll remember how to get back to the woods, back to his men, his son, his frozen wife. He just won't remember her.


	3. Chapter 3

_This be rated M :)_

She is bleeding. It is dripping, slowly traveling down the side of her face from her hairline. The scent of copper mingling with her sweat - and his. A woodsy, smoky musk dancing with the other aromas, making her nostrils flare.

It's only a small injury, a long cut, but not deep, and she'll clean it - or he will - later, not now, right now won't work. His strong arms hold her in a tight embrace as his fingers clench, his lips search hers, tongues dueling.

The way he clings to her, how his body moulds to hers, and his hurried movements, harsher than usual grasps, all tell her how he's feeling, shows her his fear. All of it allows her to read him like a page of a book, like he is pen on paper rather than her soulmate, something infinitely more complex.

She really had not meant to confront the blue fairy on her own. The woods had been calling her, she needed to clear her mind. Things with Marian, schedules with Roland, trying to sort out the complexities of a dissolving marriage. She only wants to have her happy ending; only wants that for Robin, Roland, and Marian as well.

They've been making it work for weeks now. Robin stays with her, at the mansion, but only on nights Henry is staying at Emma's. She can't bring herself to have him stay while Henry is there, not yet, but sometimes - rare times - when Marian is feeling generous Robin will bring Roland, and the three (or occasionally four) of them will play and laugh until they all fall into sleep.

Tonight was supposed to be one of those nights. Robin was supposed to arrive with Roland, but he didn't. No, Marian had decided to keep the boy tonight. Allowed Robin and him a couple hours to play together, to talk, but then asked that their son stay with her, and Robin agreed, acquiesced because, well, what should he have done?

That is what brought her to the woods. The arrangements, the strain, everything coming to a head, and Regina felt a sense of foreboding. A confrontation is in their future, just waiting, and she doesn't want to be called a 'monster', doesn't want to be considered 'the other woman'. None of it is true, but that doesn't calm the storm of emotions, the anxiety that overwhelms her.

It was well into the night when she found her way to the fallen tree they are beside now. She was just thinking, standing there quietly, or at least she is fairly certain she had been quiet, but that didn't stop Blue from finding her, didn't stop the fairy from casting her magic, hurtling spells. The fact that someone thought to be so 'good', turned out to be an evil far darker than the dark one himself, well, Regina still can't wrap her mind around that.

In the end it didn't matter. Her light magic was enough, and summoning it has become far easier. She thinks of Robin, thinks of Henry, of Roland, even finds her mind drifting to Emma, to Snow and David at times, and it shocks her to see the light only brighten, more forceful, more powerful. The fairy had slithered off through the trees, and Regina was left with only a small injury, only this cut at her temple, but when Robin happened upon her moments after the encounter, the terror in his eyes, the concern, even had her frightened.

Of course, it was only seconds later he was holding her, his entire body trembling against hers. He saw the injury first, examined it briefly in the dark, scolded her for coming out alone with the Blue Fairy lurking, but she would hear nothing of it. She proceeded to tell him how a blue bug would not have her shaking with fear or hiding away like she's weak. She refused to let this new evil determine anything in her life. The fact that so much of her life, of her happiness, is already beyond her control doesn't escape her, and she won't relinquish anymore, not to anyone.

That is when he kissed her. His hand moved from the side of her head, away from the bleeding gash, to grasp at her flowing locks of hair, to pull her head forward, the motion bringing their lips together in an eager kiss. Her hands found their way around him, pulling him closer, trying to somehow reassure him that; she was alright, she was safe, she was real.

Now, here they are, his mouth greedily devouring hers, moving across her jaw, leaving a trail of dampened skin to dry in the cool night air. She still holds him, caresses his shoulders, his back with her fingers, lightly trails her nails across the skin of his neck. Her slow motions are a stark contrast to his hasty movements, but her touch calms him, eases his fears, but not enough to steady his actions.

She doesn't mind. In fact, it is usually her that urges for the passion he is demonstrating. Usually she is the one speeding things along, anxious that everything will slip from her grasp, slide through her fingers like sand.

His tongue laps at her neck, heating her skin, then rapidly cooling under his breath, and she feels him nip, feels him suck. It will leave a mark, but rather than be upset, she simply feathers her fingers in his hair before tugging his head gently and clasping her own mouth to the tender skin at his pulse point. She won't be the only one to remember this for weeks to come.

Her heels sink into the ground as he moves her back until her calves meet the fallen log. The collision has her falling backward, still cocooned in his embrace until she is sitting on the bark, and he is kneeling in the dirt and moss before her.

A smirk tugs at her lips because in all their time together, she can't remember him ever kneeling before her, doesn't think they've ever found themselves in this position, and it makes her chuckle thinking about this honorable thief who would have gladly stolen her possessions as queen, now kneeling before her with desire and love filling his gaze.

Fortunately, she doesn't have long to contemplate these thoughts because in the next moments his hands are moving up her dress, the soft material being hiked up as far as the bark beneath her allows, and she can't think about much of anything.

He lifts her and she rises from the log just enough, until her dress is lifted to her waist, and only her lace panties separate her skin from the harsh bark of the tree. She should probably be cold, but she find there is a heat sizzling on her skin, no doubt caused by the heat glaring from his eyes, scorching from him to her.

His lips trail kisses from one knee up her inner thigh, and she can feel a surge of heat pool between her legs. Arousal swimming low in her belly, and it makes her feel pathetic and ridiculous, but part of her thinks she could come just from watching him do this, just from watching him worship her skin with his lips.

She doesn't get the chance though. Only has another moment of this before his movements pick up pace again. Panic and fear pushing his movements faster. She knows the feeling, knows that he wants everything, wants all of her, as quickly as possible before something can take her away, before something can run off with their happy ending in tow.

His hands grip her hips, and he pulls her to her knees in front of him, lines up their bodies, while simultaneously keeping her dress lifted above his arms, one of which winds around her while the other allows his hand to move inside the lace material that separates them. His finger swiping through her, grazing her clit briefly, before repeating the motion.

She drops her head to Robin's shoulder, a gasp - or maybe it was a moan - leaving her lips while he continues to tease her entrance and her clit. He is hard against her, and she figures, fairplay, so she uses her unoccupied hands to unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants. When she holds his length in her hand, grips him and strokes from base to tip, he shudders against her, gasps and stops his own ministrations temporarily causing a smug smile to pull at her lips.

After that, she can't even keep _her_ movements unhurried let alone his. She strokes him, lets him push into her hand while he thrusts two fingers into her, causing muscles to spasm and clench at the intrusion until welcoming the building pleasure as he moves them in and back out, the palm of his hand rubbing at her clit.

His other hand gropes at her breast, but her dress has a high neck, and they are both practically fully dressed still, so he just gropes through the fabric, the heat of his hand warming her hardened nipple beneath.

They are moving at the same pace, his fingers thrusting in time with her hand pulling at his shaft, and she is nearing her peak, can feel the pleasant tension coiling and growing as she becomes even slicker, her breaths becoming ragged.

His fingers pull out, palm pushing against her sensitive nub once more, but this time his fingers don't return. She bites her lip to hold back her whimper of frustration, and then his hand leaves her, the other pulling away from her breast until they both meet again on her hips, this time pulling the lace fabric down to her knees.

His lips find hers again and the softness and longing in this kiss pauses the moment, stills their actions while they simply enjoy each other, while they take the time to taste and feel.

When the motions quicken again, they are less hasty than before, eager yes, but not as desperate.

He shifts her so she is facing the log, and settles behind her, his knees resting between hers, and she bends forward, rests her forearms on the bark in front of her while his hands lift her dress again.

Then she sees stars, feels him fill her immediately, and she can tell he is trying to hold back, trying not to hurt her, but she can handle him, she knows she is close and plenty wet from what his fingers were doing earlier so she pushes back and takes him to the hilt.

That does it. Releases something in him, the apprehension that was holding him back because he starts pushing into her, then pulling out almost completely, only the tip staying inside before he thrusts back in, back home. His hands stay at her hips, fingers splayed, steadying her with each thrust.

Robin is hitting that spot inside of her that brings her a deep ripple of pleasure each time his hips meet hers, and soon she can't stop the moans and whimpers that leave her mouth. She is so close, on the verge, and once one of his hands moves up her back settling on her shoulder, twisting with her hair, while the other comes around to her front and fondles her clit she feels the tension coil and release. She feels her muscle tighten then relax then tighten and clench him with each push into her while she orgasms with a gasp of his name.

It only takes a few more thrusts, a few more slapping sounds of their skin meeting before he comes with a whisper of 'Regina' from his lips, a grunting sound against the shell of her ear as he slumps forward against her.

They stay like that, bodies joined as he softens inside of her. Her muscles still spasming and milking him until their breathing slows, all the haste and anxiety dissipating in the cool night air. One of his hands is still at her shoulder, twirling her hair, gently maneuvering the soft material through his fingers. The other arm is wrapped around her belly, keeping her close, holding her in a firm embrace while his fingers move languidly against her rib cage.

The breaths that leave his mouth by her ear puff her hair against her face. It tickles, and feels soothingly pleasant until the hair begins to stick to her skin, and she is reminded of the sticky blood that trickles along the side of her face.

She shifts a minute amount, just enough for her to lift a hand to push hair back behind her ear, but he takes it as a signal to move. The loss of contact almost has her pulling him back, but she finds she doesn't need to because once he fixes his pants, lifts the waistband of her panties back to her hips and settles the fabric of her dress back down he is once again pulling her close in an embrace.

They sit there on a cushion of moss and soil, leaning against the bark of the fallen tree, and she feels content, feels loved. Later, when he is wiping blood from her face, cleaning out the small wound above her eyebrow, still scolding her for going out alone, she can see all the fear and terror has left his gaze also, only contentment and love remains.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 1/2 angsty sexy time inspired by the sneak peek for 'Fall' **

She is tired, tired and angry. What had she been thinking? First, voluntarily casting a spell to block her magic, plus locking herself in her own vault to protect her enemies, to protect Snow White. The thought makes her cringe in disgust. Granted, her magic will return soon enough, within the next few hours, and at the time it seemed like a wise idea to sequester herself, but now, now she is feeling exhausted and bruised, trying to force her way through the cold stone of her vault.

Her back collides with the concrete wall, her body sagging in defeat. She feels rather than hears a growl leaves her throat, something dangerous and animalistic, and it isn't until this very moment she realizes how much she hates what she is wearing. The designer clothing of this world, of the mayor persona that has imprisoned her for the last three decades.

Her feet carry her quickly across the hard floor; jacket, shirt, belt, and more all discarded like scraps along the way to another chamber in her vault. By the time she steps through the opening, sets eyes on the clothing she wants to wear, she is already half naked, quickly removing the last bits of Regina in favor for the wardrobe of The Evil Queen.

A smile curves her lips as she laces the jeweled corset, the leather pants, and just as she is about to slide her arms through a long top coat, she hears heavy footfalls just beyond the room. She turns toward the open arch, the only entry and exit to this space and as she waits, the toe of his boot comes into view, followed by a leg, an arm, and then he is there, standing, blocking the entryway with his muscular frame.

She takes a moment to appreciate him. Lets her eyes glide over his form, the sweat that drips down his neck, pooling gently just above his sternum, in the hollow at the base of his neck. Her mind oddly imagines licking the salty liquid from his skin, but she thinks she probably won't get the chance. He is here to kill her. After all, she has the same urge to murder him, it just seems that for her another urge is stronger.

When her brown eyes meet his icy blue gaze she can see the anger, and the dagger in his hand tells her he definitely has come to kill, to avenge his wife no doubt, but there is something else present in those eyes, something even darker, and whatever it may be, the simple look has wetness pooling between her thighs, a thrum of arousal fluttering low in her belly. Perhaps he has other urges as well.

She is unarmed of course, had not expected anyone to come find her, to enter her vault, but she probably should have. As much as she wants to watch the blood drain from Snow White's face, (something she imagines won't be nearly as gratifying as she hopes, the woman is already quite pale, will probably look just the same when life leaves her body) there are most definitely people who want to see the same from her. People who want to watch the dark red slither from her veins, people like the man before her.

Then something shifts in the atmosphere. The dagger hits the concrete floor on its point, bounces once before landing on its side, settling against the cold floor beside Robin's boot. She finds herself staring at it for a moment, eyes narrowing before her gaze lifts back to his, dark pupils nearly blanketing all of the blue. It is then that he moves forward, steps into her space, and she is certain he is raising his hands to strangle the life from her. She'll fight back of course, won't let him send her to oblivion without trying to force him there too, but then he surprises her and she finds his hands do wrap around her neck, they do exert excess force, but then one is threading through her hair, gripping and pulling while the other moves to the nape of her neck, pulling her forward, his lips crashing to hers.

It is all anger and fire and lust, a fire burning hot, blazing painfully as teeth collide, and tongues duel. Her hands slide up his body, from waist to his chest, where they settle, fingers twisting his shirt, pulling upwards so her skin can find his, so her nails can dig into flesh. He is doing the same, limited in his groping by the tight fabric she has just placed over her skin, but it doesn't deter him, only seems to make him angrier, and it is with a heavy exhale that his palm moves from her neck, passed her shoulder to palm and squeeze her corset covered breast.

He doesn't try to unlace it, doesn't bother, but rather moves his mouth down her chin, along her neck, leaving a trail of red, bitten and angry flesh, his hand pulling and tugging at the corset. She gives him a shove, pushes him away, just an inch so she can lift the cotton fabric of his shirt over his shoulders, and it is then that he finds enough leverage to grip the material of her corset at the seam, give it a powerful tug that has her body colliding with his, and the fabric pulling away from one breast.

She looks downward, to the mangled material that no longer covers her completely, his fingers roughly find her hardened nipple, and as she looks up, the fire in her eyes is equally matched by him. She pulls his face to hers, nips at his bottom lip drawing a minute amount of blood, the taste of copper filling her mouth, and then he moves them backward. Large, fast strides that have her noticing how slick she is between her legs, each movement making her arousal painfully clear. She wants to fuck this man, maybe murder him too, but first, she wants to fuck him. The way they collide into the wall, his arousal hard and obvious grinding into her belly tells her he wants it too.

They divest each other of pants quickly, his cotton and her leather falling to the floor, gracelessly kicked away before he is on her again, sandwiching her between the cold concrete and his warm torso. He plans to take her against this wall, hard and forceful, and although she wants to fight him for control, wants to throw him to the floor and ride him until she his trembling and sated atop him, she thinks a hard fuck against the wall sounds just as pleasurable.

It is decided then, as he shifts his hands down her body, fingers kneading the flesh of her ass before moving to her thighs and hoisting her upward, her rear scraping against the wall, and her legs wrapping around his waist. She'll let him take her like this. She'll just make sure to mar his flesh as much as she likes while he does. So as he moves his hard length against her wet core, she bites at the skin covering his clavicle, sucks at his pulsepoint, until every place her mouth touches is left with a red patch of broken blood vessels.

Her arms hold tight around his neck, the warm heat from his chest pressed firmly against what is left of her corset and her one uncovered breast. That seems to give him enough leverage, enough balance to line up the tip of his shaft with her entrance, one hand remaining beneath her thigh while the other moves between them. Then he is inside, to the hilt immediately, and her head drops backward, a painful collision of skull to concrete as her mouth leaves his flesh. He doesn't wait an instant before he is pulling out and moving back in, hard and fast, moving his hand back to her rear, then her thigh, attempting to pull them wider, spread her open.

The first thrusts are painful, not awful, but slightly, unexpected and forceful, but once he is thrusting in for the sixth or seventh time she is eagerly trying to meet his thrusts, arching her back, moaning and gasping, both of them breathing heavily as he hammers inside and she pivots her hips, clenching on his hardness.

He lowers his head to her exposed breast, forcing her mouth from his skin, but she figures it doesn't matter, almost every inch of his shoulders and chest are already red or bruising from her ministrations. Instead, as he nips and sucks at her nipple, licking along the edge of her corset, she feathers her fingers through his hair and tugs, pulls, twists, and she relishes the grunts that leave his mouth each time she twists coinciding with a deep thrust into her.

He moves inside of her quickly, in and out, hips pistoning against her, crushing her between the wall and his pelvis, and she is so wet, getting even wetter as she nears her peak. His body pushes against her clit with each thrust forward, but it isn't quite enough, not quite getting her there, so she threads a hand between them, leaving one to pull at his hair, forcing his mouth back to hers.

She rubs her fingers against the sensitive bundle of nerves between her legs, and his movements are coming faster, more stiffly. He is as close as her, and the thought of it has her climbing faster, toppling over the edge with his hips colliding to hers, the tip of him hitting with a sensitive spot inside of her. She comes with a scream, an angry growl, and debates pushing him off of her, not letting him reach his peak, but then it feels so good still. He keeps hitting that spot, and it has her muscles still clenching, still tightening around his shaft, and then he is shuddering, grunting and cursing in her ear while he empties himself into her, his cock shoved to the hilt inside of her with one last collision of their bodies.

It is only a moment later that she does finally push him away, drops her feet to the floor, but she finds that she didn't need to give him the shove. He was already moving to separate, pulling from her in a quick motion and taking two strides away.

They stare at each other for a moment, and she takes in his appearance, completely naked before her with angry red welts blanketing his chest and neck, scratches lining his flesh from her nails. His eyes are still angry, pupils not as large, but still drowning out the blue. She smiles, a wide scornful thing, followed by a laugh that could only be described as evil. She figures it isn't so important to kill him anymore, not when he'll probably want to do it himself. He scowls at her, narrows his eyes before spitting at her feet. That has her laugh abruptly quieting, her own angry eyes following him as he gathers his clothing and leaves, neglecting to pick up the dagger he had dropped on his way in.


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 2/2 **

The wave hit her just as she was preparing to lunge back at Snow. Her skin torn and sliced by the glass the younger woman had just thrown her through. She could feel blood dripping from her arm, her bicep quickly covered with the thick red liquid, and then it happened. The warm feeling filled her body, the air around them seemed to lighten, and she was Regina again. Granted, not dressed like Regina.

Snow and her had embraced after that. Something she still can't completely wrap her mind around, but it felt good. It felt right to be cocooned in the other woman's arms, apologies being whispered by both of them. Comfort flowing from one to the other in a way that hadn't happened since their first meeting, since the day she rescued a little girl on a horse.

The next hours passed in a blur. Those who had been injured gathered at the hospital. Others searched for family and friends turned enemies turned loved ones again. She saw Henry, and the relief that hit her at finding him safe, not a scratch on him, can't be described. That relief faded quickly however, her mind drifting to other loved ones, to him.

He had left her in the vault, thoroughly fucked, and the images that pop into her head make her grimace. The memories of his eyes, lust filled with hatred, have her heart pounding anxiously against her rib cage, her body trembling with fear. Can what they had be salvaged? Is it possible to look at each other the same, full of love, without a hint of disgust at what had transpired this day?

It was a peculiar feeling. She was completely aware, watched him enter her vault, but rather than the usual emotions that flow forth at the sight of him, she only felt anger and hatred and revolt, and the obvious lust. That didn't disappear, for either of them apparently.

In her mind she could remember loving him, she could remember making love to him, she could remember everything, yet in that moment, everything was twisted, a darkened mirror image of what they actually had together. Rather than love, she felt hate. Rather than comfort, she felt anger.

She can't really explain it, won't even try, not with him. She doesn't have to, he knows. He knows what it felt like to lose control, to have everything you love about someone spun into something dark and sick.

* * *

><p>She stands in the woods, her bicep bandaged tightly, other scrapes and scratches tended to by Dr. Whale. She stands in fresh clothing, no makeup, not a scrap of the Evil Queen lingering on her skin or body, but she still feels her crawling beneath the surface. Just a small part that has always been there, a part she had accepted always would be, but now, now she wants to peel her skin away, layer by layer until every trace of that feeling is gone, every remnant of her past self cast aside.<p>

It is impossible of course, so instead, she stands here, her eyes stinging because she refuses to shed a tear, and she isn't sure if that is the Evil Queen side of her or just Regina, and she hates that she can't decipher between the two. She hates the part of her that Robin saw today, the part of her he clearly hated also.

It really isn't fair for her to hold any of it against him. She had looked at him radiating just as much hatred and anger, just as much loathing, and she does not want him to think she actually feels any of it. She does not. She loves him. It nearly makes her physically ill, sick to her stomach when she thinks about what she almost did to him, how she almost took his life.

He finds her there, standing alone in the woods, but she'd been expecting it, waiting. Leaves and sticks crunch under his heavy footfalls, and that is how she know he wants her to hear him coming, wants her aware of his presence, because he was a thief, and he has snuck up on her many times. He could easily come to her silently if he so wished, but he is giving her a warning, being cautious. It breaks her heart. The fact that he needs to move with caution around her now. Maybe she is right, maybe they can't go back to what they had.

When she turns, when her brown eyes meet his blue for the second time today, relief floods her body, tears threatening to spill over, because all she sees mirrored back is love, comfort, concern, and as she moves to step forward, he moves at twice the pace.

His body collides with hers softly, gently, in contrast to their earlier meeting, and his hands lift, but this time she knows he won't be strangling her, knows those hands only carry kindness and compassion. He slides his fingers across her scalp, gathering her dark hair in fistfulls, and tilts her head so that their lips meet.

It isn't an eager kiss. There is no lust or anger or fire, just softness. As their lips move together, both of their mouths part and tongues dance, a passion starts building, and she can feel him half hard against her.

She whispers his name, and he replies with hers. He cradles her head into his neck, his bruised and red neck, and she cringes, nearly sobs at the pain she caused him, at the marks the evil part of her enjoyed leaving on his flesh. He holds her tight, one hand cupping the back of her skull, the other wrapping around her waist, and she pulls at the fabric of his shirt, pulls him as close as she can, not wanting any space between them, not wanting anything to separate them.

He apologizes, can't seem to stop himself from saying the words over and over again, 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry' or, 'please forgive me, I love you, I'm sorry', and wetness is settling in her hair, against her forehead, a small stream running from his blue eyes. She parrots back the same words, holds him so close, and begs her own forgiveness, makes her own apologies.

Eventually, she doesn't know how much later, they are still wrapped in each other's embrace, but the tears have subsided, the apologies quieted, and now there is only a lingering tightness on her face. A reminder of tears that were wept, of the wetness evaporating from her skin.

They kiss again, soft and tender, but still passionate and powerful. Her body slowly starts swimming with arousal, slickness gathering between her legs, her nipples hardening in anticipation. She wants to erase earlier, replace it in her mind with something else, something better, something true and real.

After several minutes of kissing, of roaming hands, he is hard against her once again, and his hand is cupping her breast, a thumb gently gliding over the fabric covered nipple. Things pick up pace rather quickly, and she imagines he wants to replace the memories of the Evil Queen as much as she does.

Their clothing is removed hastily, cast aside onto the dirt and decomposing leaves, making a bed of fabric on which they lay. She is surprised to find that she doesn't feel cold, bare and exposed to the open air, in fact, just the opposite, anywhere his hands glide or their bodies meet heats and pools with warmth.

They examine one another slowly, kissing at red splotches, darkened bruises, tiny scratches, licking and kissing away the harsh biting and clawing from earlier. Replacing memories of pain with memories of tenderness and love. It isn't much longer before she is taking his length in her hand, straddling him, lowering slowly on his shaft until they are joined completely, both of them gasping and moaning.

She picks up a slow pace, wetness dripping from her core, coating his thick cock while she moves up and down, forward and backward. His hands grip her hips, guide with each movement, and she leans over him giving his mouth access to her breasts. He sucks and licks, kisses and fondles until she rises up and out of reach, moving faster, both of them nearing their peaks.

He meets her downward motions with upward thrusts of his hips and it has him hitting that spot deep inside of her, has her head falling backward, a loud moan leaving her lips. Then his hands move from her hips, one grasping and teasing at a nipple while the other lands where their bodies are joined, his thumb rubbing at her clit.

She moves faster than, riding him into the ground, flexing her muscles around his length, and with one more thrust of his hips meeting hers, another, she feels her body tighten, stiffen around him and then relax, throbbing and shuddering on top of him. Her hands quickly push his away from her sensitive nub, the sensation too much, too overwhelming. He rises into a sitting position, using his free hands to wrap around her waist, his mouth kissing her sternum while she continues to glide over his hardness.

That is how he comes, not a minute later, fills her, grunts into her neck as she gently slides her hands along his shoulders, still trying to kiss away the angry red welts caused by her lips and teeth. They stay like that, him softening inside of her. At some point moving to wrap arms and legs together and cover with a blanket she conjures, but still, they stay like that, absorbing the love, replacing the hatred, reassuring each other. Their love is enough.


	6. Chapter 6

**Serious angst-be warned **

**Seeping**

She isn't supposed to run from Snow White. It is supposed to be the other way around. The pretentious little brat should be running from her, yet it is not Snow, but herself currently hobbling down mainstreet, blood dripping from the many slices and cuts over her body.

Her vault. She'll make her way back to her vault, put together a healing potion, and then, then she will return for Snow White, the princess will be the one bleeding. She doesn't get the chance however, doesn't make it back to her vault.

The arrows bring her to the ground, first one to the thigh, then to the shoulder, and she falls to her knees before dropping backward, her head colliding painfully with the pavement. She stupidly grabs at the one in her shoulder, tries to extract it, pull and tugs until the pain is too excruciating, her hands slippery with blood.

The concrete is hard against her back and she vaguely feels like she is seeping into the blackness of it, her body melting, dissolving into the very fabric of the road. Everything is so wet and sticky and cold. Her fingers are slick, coated in the dark liquid that oozes from her shoulder, her thigh, everywhere.

It is so quiet, the noise of looters, shouts and hollers from earlier have subsided. The sound of boots on pavement, heavy footfalls landing closer and closer to her are the only sounds she hears. Her vision is fuzzy at the edges, and she is keenly aware of how much blood she has lost. She would be fine of course, if not for the curse, if she got to the hospital, if people helped her, but she doesn't want their help anyway.

Robin hovers into her view, frowning down at her, his bow and quiver hung over his shoulder, and he tilts his head, narrows his eyes, before his lips curl into a smile, a wide dimpled smile. She hates this man, hates him, and cannot understand what ever possessed her to feel anything but loathing.

He falls to his knees, the same action she had performed moments earlier, and leans his large frame over her. He consumes her entire vision. She can't see past him, around him, only him as her face coils into a snarl, eyes blaze with anger.

He is still smiling, maybe laughing too, but she can't be sure, all she can hear is a ringing. Her ears feel plugged, like she is sinking, beneath water, being pulled down. She nearly bites him as he grabs for her face, tries to and fails. He holds her chin, tilts it to the side as he lowers his mouth to her ear, but she still can't hear him, only muffled whispers, and it doesn't matter, she doesn't care what he has to say.

Then she feels it, he is still clenching her jaw, his lips still close to her ear when pain erupts in her ribcage. She shudders, gasps and clenches muscles as her hands move to the injury. He pulls back then, still invading her vision, and she shivers even though her body seems to be covered in a warm blanket of red.

Her hands slide even more now, glide across her abdomen with no resistance other than the hilt of a dagger. She laces her fingers around it, where metal meets skin, blood seeping. He laughs again, glaring at her, stilling as he watches, seemingly content to wait and watch as the life drains from her body.

A wave of white light flows over them, it feels like a warm summer breeze, smells like the freshness of spring, and in the next moment, Robin's eyes shift, change from icy blue to pure terror.

He is shouting, screaming she thinks, but she can't hear, still can't hear, and she wants to comfort him, needs to comfort him, but all she can do is swallow, try to breath, and even those tasks are difficult.

His hands are covering hers, sliding along, skin against skin, and she tries to revel from the warmth, tries to memorize the feeling of it, but she feels numb, the pain is leaving her, just a whisper of suffering rather than the screaming agony she had been in before.

His face is getting blurry, his hands moving to her cheeks, her hair, and his lips meeting hers. There she feels the heat again, feels something, and warmth from his lips has her calming, the shivering and shuddering ceasing, but she isn't sure if that is a good thing. She is pretty sure it is not.

Her limbs won't work, and she wants to hold him so badly, wants to console him, and she hates that he has to suffer this. It is her fault. Somehow she gathers enough strength to squeeze his fingers, his hand wrapped around hers, while his other continues to caress her wet cheek. She isn't sure if her face is wet from the blood or if she is crying, she thinks both.

Finally her ears seem to function just as her vision turns black, the last of her sight used to view a loving blue gaze, and then the sound of her name, just a whisper, although she thinks it is supposed to be a shout. Either way, she hears it, she hears her name whispered from his lips, and then it is quiet again, quiet and dark.


	7. Haunting

**Inspired by a prompt response on tumblr by nephelite. I'm whitebuddah0524 over there so come say high if you want. Enjoy this reunion fic :)**

It's never her. Never will be. He see's phantoms of her face, hears whispers of her voice, but everytime he looks again, everytime he turns around, it's never her.

He stays busy, keeps Marian and Roland comfortable. They adjust to this new life. He doesn't. He never will.

* * *

><p>It was only one day before he saw her the first time. One day he had been without her. One excruciating day, and when he stepped from the small inn they had located, out into the foggy afternoon, he actually called her name, but it wasn't her.<p>

It was two weeks later when he was waiting in line at a small cafe, picking up some sandwiches for the three of them, that he heard her voice. She placed an order, a small coffee with cream and sugar, but when he moved his gaze toward the sound, his eyes searching for those lips that haunt him, it wasn't her.

Another week passed, and two more days, and then he saw her. He felt certain. She was walking away, only a few meters ahead of him, her dark tresses flowing softly against the vibrant blue of her coat, but when he reached her, when he tapped her shoulder and she turned and he prepared himself to finally feast his eyes on her once again, it wasn't her.

One more week, another and another passed by, and he saw her twice more at least. He heard her at the store, her voice sunk into his ears on a busy street corner. He tapped her shoulder each time, turned his head, lifted his gaze, but it wasn't her. It's never her.

* * *

><p>It is a quiet Tuesday afternoon. He settles himself into the same small cafe he has frequented for the last few weeks, orders a coffee, sits down with his journal. This is his time. The brief time he takes away from Marian and Roland, time he takes to think of her.<p>

He writes to her. The words he can't hold back, can't hold in, but also can't speak aloud. He fills journal after journal with his anger, love, frustration, hope. This is when he sees her ghost most often, hears the illusive rustle of her voice.

He still looks, still turns his head, but it isn't her. It will never be her.

It is raining when he begins the short trek from the cafe to meet Marian and Roland. A drizzle hanging in the air, settling in the atmosphere. He spots her, walking just ahead of him, like so many times before. Her hair is a bit longer, frizzing in the dampness.

The sidewalk is not busy, only a couple other pedestrians huddling beneath umbrellas. He doesn't run to her, not this time. His feet come to a pause, and his breath leaves him quickly, in and out, harshly expanding his lungs.

He sighs, shakes his head, looks to the ground, the cold wetness seeping beneath his feet. He can't help himself, his head lifts, his gaze centers on her, and he walks again. His pace is fast, and it's only a moment before he catches up with her, a moment before his arm is lifting, his fingers caressing the wisping hair falling against her shoulder.

He looks down as she turns, prepares himself to apologize, to explain how she looks like someone he used to know, readies himself for a woman that isn't her.

But when his gaze lifts, the words he was searching for vanish. It is impossible. He knows she can't be standing before him, but she is, it's her, and her eyes are coated with a wetness, her lips lifting at the corners, widening into a bright smile, a smile that haunts his dreams and every waking moment of everyday. It can't be her, it is never her.

Her name leaves his mouth. The word, like silk flowing past his lips, and this is the first time he has said it since that first day away from her, that first day he thought he saw her. She hasn't said anything, and he is concerned, worried she is an illusion, a mirage caused by the drizzling fog and his dreary mind until her mouth parts and his name, her voice, sounds in his ears.

The sound breaks the haze of his stare. He blinks, once, twice, and then he has her in his arms, and she is solid, whole, and he will never release her. He swears it in her ear, over and over, he will never let her go again, never take a step in any direction that takes him further from her.

Today, it is her. Her body against his, her hair laced in his fingers, and her lips coasting across his own. It is her.


	8. Celestial Bodies

**These are my feelings.**

Grief clings to her, settles into her bones, and she spends day after day, hour after hour, searching this mansion, seeking hope where there is none. Henry keeps feeding her reassurances, tells her that they'll find the author, that they'll defeat the new villains, that she'll get her happy ending. She won't, not the one she wants anyway. That ending sailed away from her, slipped from her grasp, and she thinks it is better this way, better that she doesn't bring anyone else down with her, doesn't steal Robin's happy ending by demanding her own.

Despair is his constant companion. He provides for Marian and Roland, continues to love his son with every fiber of his being, and protects both of them, but the joy behind his smile no longer exists, the utter happiness he once felt gone, like it never existed, and part of him wonders if it did. Then he sleeps, his eyes close, and darkness takes over, and then it is her hair, dark hair fluttering past his finger tips, her lips, bright red barely reaching his skin, and then her eyes, those dark eyes, those sad eyes, but before he can reach her she is gone, he is awake, and it is painfully obvious that she did exist, just no longer does.

She was walking, a quick walk, from Granny's back home. Home to that big house, that building with so many empty rooms and deafening silence. She finds she can't do it, can't keep walking in that direction, her legs and feet pulled another way, toward a painted red line, a line that split her soul in two. It is dark, and cold, the air damp. The atmosphere smells like moss and dirt, a hint of smoke and pine. She stands here, her feet aching, but she can't move, can't take a step away from the red paint, frozen at this spot.

He sleeps a lot lately. Any moment he is not working or with Roland is spent in a space between waking and unconscious, a dark space that pulls and tugs at him, but brings him visions of her, of Regina, and this is all he'll ever have of her. Marian worries for him, tells him as much, but he reassures her with that empty smile, and he doesn't care if it is convincing or not, as long as she'll leave him be, let him sleep.

She goes to that red line every night. Stares at it, toes the paint, the barrier, for hours, and it is starting to show, starting to wear on her body and mind. She can't sleep, refuses to. Everytime she closes her eyes he is there, but he is leaving her, disappearing before her eyes, tears falling against his face, and she did that to him, she caused him that pain, and she can't bear to see it, to watch it over and over. The author is elusive, a phantom, a shadow, and she knows she won't find him, knows that even if she did, she will get no happy ending.

He knows she is close, can feel her, and he refuses to take another step in any direction that brings them further from Storybrooke, further from her. Even if he can't see her, he finds some comfort in knowing she is there, that she exists somewhere past a point he can never reach. He wonders what she is doing, how she is doing, and he worries, he worries every second. His feet find their way to that road. It is a short hike from where they have taken up residence, and he finds himself on that dreary, empty road everyday, every morning, early before the sun meets the sky.

Her body is tired, exhausted, but her mind won't stop, won't shut down, won't stop tormenting her with thoughts of what was, what is, and what could have been.

His dreams have changed, skewed, and now instead of her just out of his reach, she is crying, tears of blood, streaks or red down her face, and he wakes screaming.

Her walks to the line linger longer, and she finds herself letting the tears leave her eyes, letting them mingle with the mist in the air, the dampness that seeps at the ground.

His time on that dreary road increases, and he finds some solace in being as close as he can possibly be to her, as close as the road will take him to her.

It is dusk when she spots movement across the line, a figure, hunched, but walking steadily toward Storybrooke, toward an intangible town, a shadow. He is feet away before she recognizes him, before his name glides past her lips in a whisper, a tear dropping past her gaping lips. It can't be, and she wonders if she has finally succombed to the exhaustion, if she is asleep, or dead, or simply hallucinating. Her arm lifts, her fingers breach the barrier, and it is a difficult sensation to describe, almost like placing your hand into the steady water of a tub, but freezing, it feels freezing cold past the barrier, and it stings.

It is cold out this morning as air huffs in and out of his lungs. He couldn't sleep, doesn't sleep anymore. He decided to walk here instead, but something is off today, something is different as he nears the point he last saw her, the point where his soul split, torn in half. There is a ripple in the air, his eyes find it, and his jaw opens, a visible exhale leaving his lungs. His steps are slower, his brow furrowing, and then the rippling becomes flesh, a finger, then two, three, a hand, a whole hand, a hand with a ring that he recognizes.

Their skin meets, fingers lacing together, and the cold that was stinging her hand and enveloping his body seems to lift, seems to heat the moment they touch, the moment he moves this disembodied hand upward to trace his face, his cheek, her hand coasting across his jaw, stubble prickling her skin. She laughs, tears fall, and he cries, sobs, but finally smiles, finally feels something again. At some point she pulls her hand back, she has to, it is numb, and he smiles, blinks back tears, nods at the emptiness in front of him.

They meet every morning after that. Stealing moments as the the sun chases the moon, sky turning from dark blue to light, and it is just like them. Her the moon, him the sun, and though they are destined to never share the same sky at the same time, they still chase one another, still seek their other half, and always will.


	9. Christmas Traditions

_**Hello readers. I opened up my tumblr (whitebuddah0524) for Christmas gift prompts for my followers. This is one that covered the three prompts below (VERY FLUFFY)**_

**Merry early Christmas to you my dear ! I don't have a specific prompt for you, just a fluffy OS during the christmas holiday. It will be a beautiful present for Xmas and for my Bday (which is the 30th Dec) Love to you xx**

**If you're still accepting prompts, cause you know how much I love your writing (yes, i believer flattery is helping my request), here's one: regal believer + the mills' christmas traditions. :D MERRY CHRISTMAS TIFF! Mwah!**

**Prompt: Regina and Robin having a family dinner with Henry and Roland :3**

It is their tradition, or rather, it used to be their tradition. Henry and her would share dinner together on Christmas Eve, pizza, they would always make homemade pizzas, mix up the toppings, putting together strange concoctions, but somehow they always tasted wonderful. Always.

The last few years have been different. She hasn't had Henry by her side. When he first found out about the adoption, first learned she was the evil queen, well, she made the pizza crust, prepped the toppings, but he didn't show up, stayed sequestered in his room most of the night.

Then they spent years apart, him with Emma, and she stopped celebrating altogether. What would be the point? But now, now Henry is here, his Ipod connected to the speakers playing Christmas tunes through the kitchen. "What can I help with Mom?" She has him tonight, and first thing in the morning, but then he is going to spend Christmas day with the Charmings.

She had been invited, and although she hates to admit it, she was sorely tempted to accept the offer. She wants to spend the day with her son, but if she is completely honest with herself, she also wouldn't mind spending it with her ever optimistic stepdaughter and family. However, she has made her own plans, plans with Robin and Roland, plans to share a new tradition this Christmas. They will all be together tomorrow night, all share a large Christmas dinner, but tonight, tonight is for them, for their forgotten tradition.

"_You* _can make the hot chocolate." She tells him, nods toward the cupboard, and he gladly accepts the task, pulling out two mugs, and gathering milk and chocolate.

"Mom, I wouldn't mind if you wanted to invite Robin and Roland over tonight." He's pouring milk into a pot on the stove, bringing the temperature up slowly as he talks. "I like them, and it could be fun."

She feels her lips curve into a wide smile, a cheerful thing that still feels alien to her face, but she is getting used to it, getting used to being happy. "Tonight is for us Henry, and I want to celebrate just like we always used to." She responds, chopping bell peppers, and onions, a colorful display on the counter in front of her. She stops then, furrows her brows, "unless you would rather it not just be the two of us tonight?" She looks his way, curious, and hopes she has not ignored his desires to satisfy her own.

He smiles, stirring chocolate into the steaming pot, "No Mom. I love this tradition, and I'm glad we are doing it." She returns the grin, nods, and turns back toward the cutting board so he can't see the water gathering in her eyes, threatening to spill over at his reassurances. She loves her boy, and her heart swells with pride at the young man he is becoming.

"Here," he says, settling a steaming mug beside the vegetables she had chopped, "cinnamon?" She nods, and he adds a sprinkling of the spice to both of their mugs before they start to roll out dough, sprinkle it with cheese and toppings, and as she opens the oven door for Henry to slide the pizza covered pan inside, she can't help but laugh, not just because she is enjoying their tradition, but because his cheek is smeared with flour as he smiles back at her.

The evening goes too fast, and it seems like she only blinks her eyes and the two of them are changed into cozy pajamas, snuggled under a blanket watching Home Alone. He loved this movie as a boy, insisted on watching it _every* _Christmas, and when he picked it again this year, well, her heart nearly burst. They watch the movie, drink more hot chocolate, and she thinks to herself, life couldn't get any better.

* * *

><p>It is early the next morning Henry bounds into her room. He wakes her by bouncing onto her bed, a huge grin on his face. "Morning Mom!"<p>

She smiles, stretches and yawns, but the air feels cool, a drastic difference from the cozy warmth of her blankets and flannel pajamas, so she tucks further down, snuggles into her nest while simultaneously lifting the covers and pulling him in with her. She kisses his cheek, and she knows he isn't her little boy anymore, but she wants to hang onto him a little longer, extend his childhood just a bit. "Good morning Henry, and Merry Christmas."

He laughs, tells her she has morning breath, and then hands her a box wrapped in red paper. She rolls her eyes, gestures to the water on the nightstand that he passes over willingly before telling her to stay in bed a bit longer. He has plans to get breakfast ready for them. She eyes him warily, but smirks, nods, and he tells her to go ahead and open the gift as he steps out of the room.

She feels eager, excited, and she thinks this might be the first gift he has ever given her completely on his own. No help from a teacher, but just him, and it is a bittersweet revelation that she is too late to keep him her baby, he is already grown so much. She tears through the red paper, revealing a book, not a box, and she realizes with a start that it looks similar to his book, to the book that never provided her with a happy ending.

As she turns the page, her jaw drops, and her eyes mist. It is a scrapbook, a collage of their photos collected on the pages, and a handwritten story below. A story of a mother and son, a story of a woman who learned to love, and a beautiful tale of happiness. When she gets to the last page, she finds it empty. Her brow furrows, and she wonders if he didn't have time to finish, but then his voice finds her ears.

"I don't want you to just have a happy ending Mom." He sits down on the bed next to her, a mug of coffee in his hand. "I want you to have a happy life, and it isn't over yet so I didn't think it was right to end it." Her hand lifts to his chin, her thumb settling just below his mouth, and she thanks him, lets a few sentimental tears fall as she tells him how much this means to her, and how it is the perfect gift.

"Now," she says, wiping a few drops of moisture from her cheeks, "what do you say you open your presents?" She smiles wide, and they both leap out of her bedroom and down the stairs. Tissue paper and shiny foil wrapping paper fly around the tree, scraps left to mingle on the floor while Henry and her eat cinnamon rolls, not homemade, but Henry had kindly pulled some from the freezer and tossed them in the oven, and they taste like Christmas morning, one of the best she has had in a long while, perhaps even, the best ever.

* * *

><p>Her morning with Henry draws to a close, and she regretfully walks him to Granny's where Emma and the Charmings insist she stay for at least a coffee with them, and so she does. At least she could spend a few more minutes with Henry, and she doesn't terribly mind the other company, Hook included. She surprises herself with her jovial mood, smiles and chats with them all, and just as she kisses Henry goodbye, ready to meet Robin and Roland, Snow pulls her aside, gives her a not completely unwelcome hug, and places a card in her hand.<p>

She reads it on her walk into the forest. Just a simple card, blue with snowflakes on the outside, a Merry Christmas scrawled on the inside, and then a personal note from Snow that says how 'she hopes they will build many traditions together'. It makes Regina smile, her lips tugging at the corners, because it is sweet, and that is one thing she can always count on from Snow, when the brunette wants to be, she can be tooth achingly sweet.

"Regina!" A mop of brown curls comes bounding toward her as she reaches Robin's camp. He leaps as she gets nearer, and she lowers herself, steadies her frame on her heels, and lifts him into her arms. "We are going to make snowmen, and eat sandwiches, and cookies!"

She laughs lightly, a huge smile pulling at her mouth. "Yes Roland, we are. Are you excited?"

The boy nods in response, his curls covering his forehead until they are pushed back by a man's fingers and then hidden beneath a knit hat. Robin is there beside her, his blue eyes sparkling as he leans close, plants a kiss to her cheek and says, "Merry Christmas."

She grins, clears her throat, and shifts Roland on her hip before uttering a Merry Christmas to them both, and asking whether they are ready. On the walk she tells Robin that they can go to Granny's for lunch if he likes. Ever since the curse broke and people realized Christmas was never a holiday they used to celebrate, businesses don't close down. People still take the excuse to drink and be merry, but businesses stay open, take advantage of the spirit of the holiday, and earn a lot more money.

He laughs, tells her he is excited to celebrate with her, even if he doesn't completely understand the festivities, but one thing he does understand is how to make a sandwich, and so, he tells her, "I'll be making our lunch today Milady."

She smiles, tries not to doubt his skill, and they head to the store to pick up what he needs. When they finally arrive to her home, Robin takes the groceries inside to prepare lunch while Roland shows her how to make a snowman, a difficult task with barely any snow still on the ground. It has been warm this season, after the Snow Queen's defeat anyway, and the small amount of fluffy white flakes on the grass make for a rather small snowman. Still, the boy beams with pride at his creation and Regina smiles and encourages him until Robin calls them both inside.

They eat lunch, and Robin was right, he makes a very good sandwich, and Roland fills his belly with sugar cookies and hot chocolate. She gives the boy a tightly wrapped gift that he has no trouble quickly shredding, and as he pulls out a set of wooden cars and trucks his eyes grow big, and he smiles that wide dimpled smile and thanks her.

It is a couple hours later as Regina busies herself in the kitchen, preparing a ham for dinner along with mashed potatoes and green beans that Robin walks in and wraps his arms around her waist. "Roland fell asleep watching the movie." He whispers from behind her, his chin resting on her shoulder, breath skittering across her neck. They had been watching Home Alone again when she decided to start on dinner. With the Charmings and Emma and Hook to join them she wants to have enough, to be prepared, and she almost is, but finds herself pleasantly distracted with Robin's hands on her hips, squeezing and grasping.

She spins in his embrace, bringing her hands up to his chest as she does, and whispers back, "and what do you plan on doing with yourself while he sleeps?" She raises her eyebrow suggestively, and he seems to take the hint because in the next moment his lips are on hers, and she thinks this could be a lovely new tradition to start this year.

* * *

><p>It is early evening when Roland finally wakes. She can hear his soft footfalls from where she is freshening up in the bathroom, and then hears Robin with him. She joins them moments later, a contented smile on her face as she gazes at the picture before her, father and son setting the table together. The doorbell draws her from the scene, and when she opens the door, sees Henry holding a pie, she doesn't even notice that no one is with him at first, just wraps him in a tight hug, or as tight as she can manage with a pumpkin pie separating their torsos.<p>

"Mom, you just saw me this morning." He says into her ear, and she pulls back smiling, says she will miss him whether he is apart from her for an hour or a year, and then she finally looks arounds, sees he is alone.

"Where is everyone?" She asks, her brows furrowing in concern as they walk into the warm house and close the door.

"Baby Neal is sick so Grandma and Grandpa decided to stay in, and Emma and Hook said they didn't want to intrude, but really I think they just wanted some time just the two of them. They ended up going to Granny's" He hands her the pie as they walk toward the kitchen, and any response she was preparing is long forgotten, swallowed by Roland's squeals, and the friendly banter between her son and Robin. They all sit at the table, the four of them smiling and laughing as they share dinner. Roland talks about the snowman, about how he is going to show his mom how to make one tomorrow, and Robin boasts about his sandwich making while his hand finds her knee under the table, squeezes reassuringly occasionally throughout the dinner.

Regina finds herself quiet for most of the meal, other than the countless laughs that leave her, deep happy laughs. She sits back and relaxes, listens to her boys tell their stories, talk about their days, and then Henry turns his gaze to her, stares for a moments before asking, "what about you Mom? How was your Christmas?"

She tilts her head, a lock of hair falling to partially cover her face, and as she pushes it behind her ear, looks up at the three surrounding the table, she smiles and says with an emotional voice, "It has been the best Christmas I've ever had."

It is a few hours later, both boys tucked into bed, that Regina and Robin exchange gifts. He gives her a heart pendant made of gold, says it is his, and if she ever finds herself without one again, she will have this. She will always have his. She gives him arrows, gold-tipped, and it is a joke that has them both chuckling, laughing together. As they stand in the kitchen, everything cleaned, Christmas Day almost over, Robin pulls her to the hallway saying Henry informed him of a tradition, a very important tradition. She smiles at his vagueness, raises her eyebrow, and then he lifts his hand, points up, and she sees the mistletoe her and Henry had hung the day before. She laughs, tells him, "that is an excellent tradition", and that is how Christmas ends this year.


	10. The Toy Store

_**Response to the prompt below. By the way, if any of you are following Doctor or Beneath the Dirt I will be updating after the holidays sometime. I have a few more prompts to fill, and then I'll be working on the next chapter of BTD :) Enjoy this oneshot in the mean time.**_

**OQ Prompt: They meet in a toy store, each of them has a son who both want the exact same toy, that every other kid wants. Problem there is only one left!**

"I saw it first!" Her voice comes out sharp, caustic, and even she can hear the childish tone beneath the words, but she can't seem to help it. Regina's hand grips the toy hard, knuckles turning white, and she gives it another quick tug.

"Well _I* _grabbed it first!" He tugs back, and he knows he sounds just as stubborn and juvenile as his four year old son, but he finds he does not care. He will do whatever it takes to bring this toy home for Roland, even if it means a full out brawl with this woman, this rather stunning woman.

He is handsome. She'll give him that much. Those blue eyes, and those dimples that pop when his lips curve up in an arrogant smirk, a passive aggressive smirk that she wants to slap right off of his chiseled jaw. Still, his looks will not help him. She _will* _get this toy for Henry. He's been asking for it for months, and with everything changing, with him learning about his adoption, he's been pulling away from her, angry more than happy, hateful more than loving, and she must get him this toy.

She is drop dead gorgeous he thinks to himself, those dark eyes, and those plump lips, but no, he will not give in, not give up. Roland wants this toy, and he shall have this toy. The boy has lost enough in the last year, and it was only two weeks after their last Christmas that they finally bid farewell to the boy's mother, laying her to rest in a cold dreary cemetery, someplace no boy should have to visit his mother. Roland will have this toy.

She gives the toy another tug. "This is for my son!" She practically grunts the words, fixing a cold glare onto the man across from her.

He tugs back again, his smirk falling into a scowl. "No. It is for _my*_ son!"

Regina takes a step closer, only a couple inches left between their bodies. This is a tactic she has put to good use in the past, and never once has a man been unaffected by her, whether it be intimidation or sexual tension, she _always*_ gets her way. She smiles, a fake thing, bashful and coy as she switches from a cold glare to flirtatiously batting her lashes. The hand not squeezing the toy lifts to the man's chest, her pointer finger fondling one of the buttons of his shirt. "Why not be a gentleman, and just let me have this one?"

He laughs, a hearty deep thing that shakes his entire body, and he can't help it. She is convincing. She is splendid, and there is no use in pretending that her close proximity does not affect him. That much is uncomfortably clear, but he can give as well as he gets. He thinks he'll even enjoy it. He moves his feet forward, the toes of his boots colliding with the toes of her heels. "I am far from a gentleman milady, so I'm afraid you are out of luck, but" his gaze travels to her mouth, outlines those gorgeous lips before he meets her eyes again, "why not be a lady, and let my boy have this toy?"

Her breaths are leaving her lungs quickly, her chest rising and falling with each inhale and exhale. He is close, their faces a mere inch apart, and she gulps noticeably, takes a large breath. His blue eyes are even bluer in this moment, and the way they darken as his gaze draws to her mouth and back up does not go unnoticed. She prepares a snide remark in her mind, a response to his question, but she doesn't get the chance to say it.

At some point both of them must have loosened their grip on the toy, distracted by one another, by thinking of the next tactic, the next convincing strategy, because it only took a small girl, maybe only five years of age, to do what each of them had failed to do. The little blonde grabs the toy, and runs the three feet to the register, where her mother stands, busying herself with paying the cashier. "Here Mommy! I found it! I found the toy I wanted!"

It happens in slow motion, and both of their jaws open simultaneously, both of them preparing to utter their own objections when the cashier scans the toy, and tosses it to the top of an already full bag. "Cash or charge?"

Regina sighs, closes her mouth, and absorbs the dejected feeling threatening to squash her. She really needed that toy. Henry really wanted that toy.

Robin frowns, brings his hand up and scratches his jaw. Thinks to himself, it wasn't meant to be, and the boy will understand, but when he turns to the woman still standing beside him he feels such empathy and compassion. Her face, the beautiful determined face from moments before, now looks morose, disheartened, and he thinks that maybe she did need that toy more than him. "Drink?" He asks in earnest, knowing they both could use it.

Her eyes meet his, and something about the kindness glimmering in those blue orbs has a small smile pulling at her lips, a sarcastic response falling from her mouth. "I don't make a habit of drinking with ungentlemanly characters."

He laughs again, and she responds with a small chuckle of her own. "Well, I'll just have to be on my best behavior then, starting with an introduction," his hand lifts in the small space between them, "I'm Robin."

She grins, casts her gaze downward taking in the calloused skin in front of her before lifting her own hand to his warm embrace. "I'm Regina."


	11. The Map

_**Kind of angsty response to the prompt below, but I think it turned out nice. Let me know what you think.**_

**OQ. "on the map"**

He looks at the map everyday. His fingers coast over the colored paper, and he imagines, can almost see her prints at the edge. He touches and touches because she had touched this, and he has nothing of her, but he has this map, this decrepit scrap of paper that is creased and smudged from his constant ministrations, and if this is all he can have, if this is the only tangible link they will ever share then he will continue to touch it, continue to stare at it everyday of his life.

Storybrooke doesn't exist on this colorful portrayal of roads and places. The ink that had been there, clear as day, printed bold and perfectly legible before he stepped past that line, has faded, disappeared, like it was never there to begin with.

He doesn't need it to be there. He will never need a map to find his way back to her, to travel back to that moment, that place he last saw her, but it is disconcerting, frightening to think that with the ink gone from this world, so is she, his Regina, like she was all a dream, lost somewhere between his reality and his fantasy.

Each day passes slowly, blurring together into one long lifetime, a lifetime he know he'll have to live without her, and so he does. They make it work, Marian, Roland, and himself. They both get jobs, make enough to stay comfortable, and Roland grows. They send him to school, learn things as they go, but they keep to themselves. It is a lonely life, but Robin couldn't ask for anything more. The only thing he wants, is the one thing he can't have.

He pities Marian, feels sympathy and guilt every time she sends him a smile. Eventually she meets someone, and he encourages her, tells her not to waste her life with a man that can never love her how she deserves. The years go by, fade into the past, and things don't change for him. Roland changes, grows, Marian changes, finds love with another man, but Robin remains stagnant, unmoving, his soul dormant.

He feels old, and perhaps he is. His hair has turned a silvery hue, and his body has lost some stamina, but he still manages, lives on his own now in the forest, in a small cabin Roland helped him build before moving away for school.

Every night he sits, stares into the fire, flames encased in stone, and it mimics his heart, his soul set aflame long ago, but trapped in stone ever since he walked away, ever since he left her at the townline. He pulls the flimsy paper from his pocket, carefully unfolding each bend, and settles back in his chair, preparing himself for another night of dreaming, of remembering.

As his gaze travels the same old paper, the same old lines and faded colors, that is when he sees it, and he pauses, blinks, rubs his eyes before looking again. It wasn't there yesterday, nor the day before, but now it is, clear as day, like it was always there, like it never disappeared, the name of a town, a town he knows too well.

It doesn't take him long. He moves quickly, his bones creaking, and his muscles aching from a long day's work behind him, but he won't wait, can't wait. He is on the road, walking at a fast pace, and that place is only half a miles walk for him. He never went far, could never bring himself further away from the other half of his soul. He can see it as he nears the line, a dark crimson paint staining the black beneath, and then as he nears closer, there is the sign, a sign he never expected to see again.

He is breathing fast, heart pumping blood to his quickly expanding lungs, and it seems like only minutes, no, seconds, before he is knocking, his fist colliding with the wooden door powerfully, faithfully.

She opens to him, and it is her, and his eyes feast on the vision before him like a starving man who has just been provided with a banquet. She is older too, wrinkles more defined, and she looks thinner, frailer somehow, but she is beautiful, still as stunning as the moment he first saw her. She blinks, gulps, and then he can see her lips turning up, that smile he loves so much, that smile he has seen behind his eyelids when he dreams.

"Robin?" She says, uncertainty coloring her voice, and he remembers that voice. His eyes close, and he exhales, a breath of relief at the opportunity to hear her again. His feet close the distance between them, and he kisses her, a solid but gentle kiss that has the flames of his heart growing, surpassing the ever present stone that had been separating their love. The uncertainty is gone as she asks, "how is this possible?" Smiles cover both their mouths, and he lets their foreheads fall together before he responds.

"You were on the map."


	12. Desolate Hope

_**Based on a prompt from darkmaison over on tumblr. Enjoy.**_

**Prompt OQ Robin is back in SB, he tracks Regina down, although happy to see him, she is fearful about the Queens of Darkness, not finding the author, losing Robin again etc. Robin says "you've lost your hope, use mine for the both of us" Merry xmas x**

The barrier is down. The Dark One and his trio of blackened hearts managed to lower it, came storming through town exuding determination. They plan on finding the author, plan on forcing their own happy endings, and they plan on using her, and Henry, any knowledge they may have in the process.

She thinks about Robin often. With the barrier down, her mind lingers on thoughts of him and Roland, where they are, what they are doing, and what it would be like to find them. She can't leave town, can't go searching for them, and even if she did, well, she sees the desolate future all too well. She is not meant to be happy. She would lose them again, lose him again.

She sighs, brushes a wave of dark hair behind her ear, and focuses. Shakes the memories, the thoughts of her soul mate, of a story destined to be star-crossed, from her mind, and focuses on the book in front of her. There are so many books, endless pages, some filled, some not, and with each turn, with each shuffle of paper Regina's hope fades, withers and dies in a dark recess of her heart.

A creak sounds behind her, a draft wafts against the skin on the back of her arms, and the hairs at the base of her neck prickle from the chill. She glances toward the dim fireplace, waves her hand, and flames ignite, grow, lick the sides of the brick chimney before settling into a roaring fire.

"Henry it is getting late. Shouldn't you be making your way home?" She doesn't look up, gaze trapped in the pages of countless books, and she wants him to see this, wants him to think she hasn't given up hope, that she'll keep reading, that she'll find a happy ending, even though she knows she won't, knows how her story will always end.

"I did." She hears, and that is not Henry's voice. It is deeper, rougher, and has an emotional edge to it, almost quivering as he continues to speak. "I am home."

Her eyes lift from the page, and her breaths are leaving and returning in a fast pace, one intake of air chasing out the next, until she turns in her chair, and then all the air seems to leave the room, suffocating her in this hopeless dream. He can't be here, it can't be him, and even if it is, she knows it will only hurt more when she loses him this time around.

"Ro-robin" Her voice cracks, moisture blurring her vision, threatening to spill from the brown depths, from the eyes that she cannot seem to pull away from his face. His own tears are falling, painting his face with a glimmering wetness that reflects the flames of the fire. "Is it really you?"

It only takes a moment for his arms to surround her, envelope her in a chilly embrace. He is cold. His clothing chills her skin, and there is a dampness in his hair, mingling in the fabric covering his shoulders, remnants of the snow that has been falling most of the evening. He whispers in her ear, words of elation, promises and declarations of love, and as he pulls away he kisses her lips before gazing happily into her face.

She smiles at him. Smiles and stares, her fingers tracing his cheek and chin, but she doesn't speak, can't bring forth any words that wouldn't ruin the moment, wouldn't do damage, and she has already done enough of that in her lifetime. Why add more? But he sees it, notices the truth beneath the facade, and his brow furrows, lips turning down as concern chases the glee from his features.

"Regina, what is it?" He asks, bringing himself to his knees, his cold hands like ice against her warm neck. "What is wrong?"

She has missed those eyes, those beautiful blue eyes, and she is happy, delighted to see him, but she is scared, anxious, because now that he is here, now that she has him again, there is only one logical progression. She'll lose him. She'll lose him again.

"I've missed you Robin." She lets a tear fall along with the smile. "And I am so happy to see you, but," she looks down, shakes her head, sighs, "but I don't know what to say. I love you Robin. I do, but the only place that our love can take us is down another road, another long tale, and they all end the same way." She looks to his eyes, blue searching brown. "I don't know if I can do it again." She starts rambling then, talking about the Queen's of Darkness, and The Dark One, and the elusive author.

He is kneeling before her, grasping at the hair beside her face with one hand as the other (now warm) covers her hands, settling them together on her lap. He pulls something from his vest pocket then, a scrap of paper, and it takes her a minute, just a moment to realize that it is them, a scrap of that torn book page, a scrap she let scatter at the town line weeks ago. He lifts her hand and places it in her palm, fisting her fingers around it before encircling it inside his own hands.

"Regina," he addresses her, determination set in his brow, "you've lost your hope." Then he lifts their joined hands, resting his elbows on her thighs as his lips find her knuckles, caressing them with a kiss. "Use mine for the both of us."

Her head tilts and she smiles again, this time something real, something full, not hindered by her worries or her regret. He returns it, tells her how long he has been waiting to see that smile again, and she thinks maybe, just maybe his hope can be enough to pull them through, to pull her through.


	13. The Bath

_**Missing year fic based on the prompt below. Didn't really turn out very silly, but my muse headed in a different direction. Enjoy**_

**Prompt: Silly one: Robin walks in on Regina in the bathroom (lol)**

**(ps. I might be continuing that Toy Store one-shot for those who are interested. Not much, probably just one more chapter to make it a two-shot)**

**Rated T-ish**

She needed this, has needed it for days. Her muscles are stiff and tense, her body constantly coated with a thin layer of sweat. It has been hot, sweltering, and she hates this place, this forest, the heat of summer in their enchanted world.

That is what has brought her here, to her garderobe, to a conjured tub filled to the brim with lukewarm water. Moisture clings to every inch of her skin, sweat mingling with the water in which she floats, limbs sinking then lifting.

It feels good. The almost cold water a welcome reprieve from the heat of the sun, the heat of anger she feels steadily thrumming in her mind and body. That thief. He drives her insane. Every rude word that leaves his arrogantly smirking lips riles her, has her blood pumping, the vein in her forehead pulsing.

She was supposed to meet with him today. Well, technically she was supposed to meet with the Charmings to discuss her sister and the green witch's constant threats, but he is always there too, always aggravating. Instead, she sequestered herself in her chambers, locked herself in the safe nest of these rooms. Locked everyone else out, like she's always done.

She knows she'll only have a while longer, a precious few moments of this cooling serenity before her stepdaughter calls on her, worriedly knocks at her door. She only has a short while before she'll be forced to leave the comfort of this bath, the soothing water, forced to face them all, forced to don the armor of a queen she never wanted to be.

She sighs, pinches her eyes closed tightly and takes a deep breath before sinking, sinking into the coolness flowing around her. She stays there, isn't sure how long, and she lets the water cleanse, lets it rinse her skin of sweat, clear her mind of anger, disappointment, bitterness, and for an instant she can imagine that she isn't herself, that she isn't miserable.

When she finally resurfaces, filling her lungs with the humid air surrounding her, she feels ready, feels like she could actually face the world outside of this room and not collapse under the weight of her dejected soul. At least, she feels that way at first. She feels that way until that irritating voice sounds in her ears, her calmness retracting, vanishing, instantly replaced with anger and annoyance.

"This is what has you too busy to meet with the council then?" He questions, and she can see him now, a hideous brown and green filling her peripheral as he leans smugly in the doorway.

She turns to him, glaring, mentally skinning the flesh from his bones as she scowls in his direction. "How dare you."

He responds to her anger how he always does, with infuriating calmness. He smirks, blue eyes moving to his boots before working his lower lip between teeth. She has a brief flash, wonders what those teeth would feel like nibbling on her lip, nibbling her skin, nibbling…no. She mentally shakes the image of his lips on her skin, and represses her own smug smirk as she comes up with a different approach to this thief and his antics.

He begins talking, saying that the Prince and Princess were worried due to her absence, but she doesn't let him say more, halts his explanation with a shift of her body. She sits straight in the tub, hands finding purchase on either edge until she is grasping tightly, biceps flexing as they support her weight, lifting until she stands, water dripping along her heated flesh.

Finally he has a different reaction, a dumbfounded reaction, and his widened eyes and slack jaw have Regina's lips curling at the corners, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. For once it seems the thief is speechless. She doesn't waste the moment, fills it with words of her own, teasing sarcasm.

"I simply lost track of time thief." His darkened gaze stops searching her body, lifting to settle on her face as she speaks. "I'll be ready shortly." She bends at the waist slightly, just enough to reach a towel resting beside the tub, and as she rises, she lets their gazes meet, stares heatedly before asking, "Will there be anything else thief?"

He smirks again, and it has her smile faltering, her confidence waning. "No your Majesty. Nothing else." He turns in the doorway, diverting his hungry gaze, but then he stops, turns his head her direction enough for his profile to come into view. "You looked content."

"What?" She doesn't understand, and she wonders if it is her or if this man purposely speaks in riddles, just another way of shifting her equilibrium, of keeping her vexed.

"Before you saw me," he pauses, takes a breath, "before I interrupted. You looked content, almost happy. It was truly a beautiful thing to behold Milady." The words have her brow furrowing, another painful moment of self-reflection taking hold of her mind. Then his head is turning again, he begins to walk away, to leave her in peace, and she can hear the smirk in his voice as he says, "Perhaps you should bathe more often."

And with that final phrase Regina finds herself fuming, blood boiling, and she casts the towel aside as she lowers herself back under the surface of cool water.

**Let me know what you thought :)**


	14. Broken Laws

**A prompt response from tumblr. Regina is a retired hitwoman, and Robin is a psychic. Kind of has a marvel movie type of feel (imo). Let me know what you think, and enjoy the read. :)**

**Oh, and I will be updating Doctor and Beneath The Dirt (sorry for taking so long. I plan on completing my outline for BTD and then updating regularly now that I've finished most of my prompts)**

It's a dangerous line of work, always was. That's why she retired in the first place. It isn't safe, not for Henry, not for them. They set her up with a good job, a safe environment, far from her past, far from any previous 'co workers'. Here, in StoryBrooke, she is just the mayor, just a mother, and she didn't think anything could draw her into that old life again.

She has the education, legitimate credibility for the role of mayor. In fact, that is exactly what her parents always wanted from her, but somewhere along the way she got sucked into a world where you don't exist, where each day is about a new mark, a new kill, and nothing else matters.

There is a thrill to it, or at least a thrill _she*_ has always felt. It is a cold sting in the veins, a rush of adrenalin that speeds the heart and lungs. It makes her feel alive, and she never thought she'd feel it again, had hoped she wouldn't, but here she is, Robin beside her cradling his head, and what she is about to do, well, it is reckless.

She feels a responsibility though, a calling, because why on earth would this man, this frustrating man, have found his way to her if she was not meant to do something. All this time she has been trying so hard to keep Henry safe, but she is failing, failing everyday there is another hopeless crime in this city. A small city with a skyrocketing crime rate. It needs to stop. She needs to stop it.

* * *

><p><em>Three Days Ago<em>

"Henry, we're going to be late." She pulls a black wool coat over her shoulders, slides her heeled boots onto her feet as Henry bounds down the steps.

"Sorry Mom." He drops his backpack to the floor with a thud before donning his own jacket and slipping on sneakers. "I couldn't find my paper, and Miss Blanchard is collecting them today."

"And?" She questions, hoping the paper in question is no longer missing.

"I found it." He smiles, that bright handsome smile that reminds her just how quickly he is growing. Her lips pull up in response, and as she walks him to the bus stop she tries to tell herself to focus, to remember, because one of these days he won't let her walk him anymore, one of these days will be the last like this.

She arrives to work on time, but frazzled, feeling off kilter, but then Emma walks in with a latte in one hand and the daily agenda in the other. She makes a mental note to increase the blonde's Christmas bonus this year because really, she has no idea what she would do without her. Good assistants are hard to come by. Her mind tugs onto a particular employee, Sidney Glass, and his peculiar ability to make her feel like a snake was slithering under her skin everytime he looked at her.

Shaking the thought from her brain she focuses on Emma, sips at her latte, and asks what is on the docket today.

"Only one meeting this morning." She says, leaning back in the chair opposite Regina. "The guy said it was urgent to speak with you. Says he has some information, and Sheriff Graham sent him your way." The younger woman shrugs as she speaks the last sentence before finishing with, "His name is Locksley. Robin Locksley."

Regina leans forward, lifting and shuffling files in front of her. "Hmm. Sounds intriguing. Send Mr. Locksley in when he arrives."

She doesn't have to wait long, almost makes it through one phone call before Emma is knocking at her door, guiding a very handsome man to the seat across from Regina. She nods to Emma, dismisses her, and holds up an index finger to Mr. Locksley, smiling as she finishes the call.

"Mr. Locksley I presume." She stands, comes around her desk to greet him, to shake his hand, and she notices he has a firm grip, strong, something that makes him even more attractive to her. Like the dimples and blue eyes weren't enough.

"Madam Mayor." He states, as he releases her hand, and he looks uneasy, seems stressed.

"You can call me Regina." She can read people, understands them, doesn't usually like them, but she is good at manipulation, and she thinks this man needs her to be approachable, so she is. "Shall we sit?" She gestures toward the sofa in her large office, thinks it will make him feel more comfortable, more willing to talk, and even though she has no idea what he has to say, something tells her she wants to hear it.

They sit, he tells her to call him Robin, and they talk, but not about why he is here. At least, she assumes he has not come to talk about her son, and his son, and the difficulty of single parenting, but the topic seems to loosen him up, leaves his dimples deep and his smile wide. He is less tense, less anxious, and when she changes the subject, asks him why he came to see her, he sighs, his jaw tightens, but he begins explaining in a more relaxed demeanor than when he entered her office.

"This is going to sound crazy." He rubs his hands on the fabric of his pants, resting them on top of his thighs, and she narrows her eyes because those words can't possibly lead to anything good. "I went to see Sheriff Graham yesterday morning." He meets her eyes while he speaks, blue orbs capturing brown, and it pulls her in, has her listening intently. "You see," he sighs, runs a hand through his hair before swallowing, "I've been seeing things, seeing crimes."

She tilts her head to the side, dark hair shading her features. "I'm sorry Robin. I don't think I'm following. Did you witness a crime because," she is about to tell him he should be talking to the Sheriff, that the man should never have sent him away without a statement, but then he is shaking his head, lifting a hand to silence her.

"I didn't see it happen Regina," he is agitated again, shifting uncomfortably as he continues, "it hasn't happened yet." The words leave him quietly, just above a whisper, and once they sink in, once she understands, her eyebrows raise and her jaw drops before she can school her features.

"I see." She stands, places one hand on her hip while the other lifts to her forehead, scratching lightly while she tries to think what she had done to Graham, what could have pissed off the sheriff to the point that he would send the crazies her way. "Well, I really do think this is something for the Sheriff, Mr. Locksley. He should be in the office today if you'd like to return to the station." She gestures toward the door, walks toward it, but then he stops her, places a hand on her bicep, and she feels something.

She can't describe it. Its like a shock or vibration, but she felt it through her entire body, and now Robin Locksley is staring at her, those blue eyes set and determined. "I've seen things all my life Regina. I can prove it to you." His hand hasn't moved, and it is erie, peculiar, but something stops her from moving, something keeps her feet planted to the floor, her gaze glued to his face. "You were seventeen." His eyes open wide, and they look sad, empathetic.

"What are you talking about Mr. Locksley." She shakes her head, shifts her body to break the contact of his hand to her arm, but it doesn't break the gaze he has settled on her or the anxiety coursing through her veins.

He sighs, looks down and shakes his head before meeting her eyes again. "I'm sorry Regina. I don't choose what I see. It just," he lifts a hand, waves it in front of his head, "happens."

"I don't know what you're talking about Mr. Locksley." She speaks sternly, straightens her back and levels her shoulders as she walks to her desk, grasping the phone, but just as she gets the receiver to her ear, just as she says Emma's name, he interrupts.

"You were seventeen when they died." He is walking toward the desk, hands raised with palms facing toward her like he is cornering a scared animal, and she realizes that is exactly how she feels.

"Nevermind Emma." She declares into the phone, never shifting her eyes from his as she sets it back down, sits at her desk. "What did you see?" She asks, brows furrowing as her eyes sting, moisture blurring his face.

"I saw you. I saw them." He takes the seat across from her before continuing. "An older man, your father I think, was driving, and they were arguing, your parents." He scratches at his skull, squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. "I don't know what they were upset about, but then there were lights, and it was foggy, and," he pauses, and he is breathing faster, clenching his fists, "it was loud, but then so quiet, and cold. It was wet and cold, but then it was warm on your hand, wet and warm, and sticky, and," his eyes have closed again, but everything he is saying she remembers. She remembers it like it was yesterday, because she dreamt about it just last night.

"Stop." She is scowling. She can feel the tension in her face, and she closes her eyes, breathes slowly, focusing, pulling away from that car, from the place she lost her family. "I believe you Mr. Locksley," she says the words, but there is little feeling in her voice, "but I still don't know why you are here."

He nods, murmurs another apology that she brushes off, asking him to continue. "I used to only see things like that. When I touch someone, it is like a piece of them rubs off on me, and then I am with them, in a moment, in a place." He sits in the seat on the other side of her desk, resting his elbows on his knees as he continues to explain. "Lately I've been seeing more. I have flashes, see things happening. At first I thought they were dreams or memories, but then," he pulls a news clipping from his pocket and sets it on her desk, "I saw this happen Regina. Two days before it actually did."

She leans forward, thumbs the scrap of paper. She doesn't need to read it. The headline is enough. 'Fatal bank robbery leaves mother of two dead.' She knows about the robberies around the city. It is her city after all. First was the jewelry store, no one died there, but a security guard had been shot, critically injured. Then it was Mr. Gold's Pawn shop, and luckily no one was there when the crime took place, but then came the bank, and the female teller hadn't done anything to provoke the robbers. They just shot her while she handed over the money. One witness even said they laughed about it.

"So you're saying," Regina starts.

He interrupts again and she listens intently, captivated. "I'm saying I saw another robbery, and someone else is going to die."

* * *

><p>She goes to the Sheriff's station with him this time, and she doesn't know what possessed her, what made her think Graham would listen just because she was present. In the end the sheriff just smiles, chuckles, and she can tell he thinks it is a joke, a prank as payback for sending Robin her way in the first place. He tells them 'it's a nice story', and maybe they can 'publish a book together', but as she's leaving he isn't reluctant to mention the mayoral re-election coming up, and how she may not want to be seen around town with this lunatic.<p>

She smiles, her fake political smile that works every time with this man, and sends him a wink while hurrying out with Robin in tow.

"Well now what?" Robin asks exasperated. "That man is an idiot."

Regina knows it is true. Graham was a good detective when he first started, but when he was elected sheriff something shifted, his ego grew, and now the man is failing. She is failing. Storybrooke is slowly becoming a terrifying place, and this is not what she signed up for. When she retired from a life of death and murder to keep Henry safe, she never planned on ending up mayor of a town more dangerous than her previous profession.

"Now," she begins walking, heels clacking against the sidewalk as Robin follows closely behind, listening intently, "we deal with this problem ourselves Mr. Locksley."

They spend the rest of the day in her office. He fills her in on the details, the particulars of his vision. He tells her that he sees Granny's diner, that the criminals will strike late at night when only Granny and a few patrons are present. Robin squeezes his eyes together tightly, his fists clenching, knuckles turning white as he describes how one of the two men will wait out front, gun held to three hostages while the other will take Granny into the back of the diner, and as she hands over the money, the man will shoot her, a smile on his face the entire time. He tells her how the hostages panic, how the other man shoots all three of them before the two men escape quickly through the back.

"I think one of them will survive." Robin states after the vision passes. His eyes find Regina's, and she hands him a glass of whiskey, pouring another for herself before joining him on the couch. "One of them is shot in the shoulder, but it doesn't look that bad. I think she might live," he sips from the dark amber liquid, and it is only now Regina sees how his hand is shaking, "but the others," he sighs, finishes his drink with one gulp, "there is a lot of blood."

He is staring ahead, a haunted expression shading his features, and Regina isn't sure what comes over her, why she has an urge to comfort this man, but she does, and so she will. Her hand covers his wrist, both of his hands flanking the empty glass between his knees, and when her skin makes contact with his she feels a heat, a warmth, and his hands stop shaking. She wonders briefly if he can see something, if by offering comfort, she is also offering insight into herself, into her world, but she shakes off the thought, asks him if he'd like another drink. He shakes his head, tells her he'd like more, but he has his son to think of, and the boy will be waiting for him at the inn.

She nods, removes her hand from his wrist and sips at her own drink. It dawns on her slowly, a realization that has her heart dropping, "The inn?" She looks at him, lips parting, shock evident in her eyes, "you mean Granny's inn? You are staying there with your boy?"

"Yes," he answers calmly, "but I know when the robbery will happen Regina. We will be fine there." He says it reassuringly, but it does not have that affect on her.

"No." Her mouth is moving, words coming out, and she wants to snap her lips shut, wants to pull back and put on her mayor's mask. The mayor would smile, calmly nod, say 'of course you'll be fine', but something tugs at Regina, an anxiety she can't overcome, and the mayor's antics fail her completely. "You shouldn't be staying there Robin. It is dangerous," and now she is shaking, sets her glass down, tries to remove the image of Robin on the floor of Granny's bleeding, of Roland, a four year old boy losing his father.

"It isn't dangerous Regina." He reaches out, his hand grasping her arm, him offering comfort this time, "I know when,"

"You can't possibly know everything." She interrupts, stands up and begins pacing.

He sighs, leans further back on the couch before saying, "you're right Regina. For instance, I don't know why you brought me here. Why you said 'we' could handle this situation." She stops her pacing, slows her breathing as he continues, "I have my suspicions, but so far I am the one doing all the talking."

He is staring at her, blue eyes burning, and she looks down, twirls the glass in her hands before moving forward, lowering back on the couch beside him. "I," she pauses, works the words in her mind, "I have a way of preventing the crime." After the words are out she lifts the glass to her lips, tips back and swishes the liquid down her throat.

"I figured as much." He leans forward, to his side a bit, toward her, "but what exactly is it you can do Regina?"

She is staring forward, her eyes narrowing as she turns to face him, and she hadn't realized how close he was, his face mere inches from hers, his eyes looking even bluer up close. She clears her throat, straightens up. "It isn't important," she says, "all I need are the details from you. I can handle the rest."

He shakes his head, says he doesn't like that, doesn't think she should do anything alone, but she stands, removing both glasses from the table in front of them, and walks to place them back near the bar table. "I'll be fine Robin." Her back is turned toward him, and she is grateful for that, because otherwise he'd be able to see the emptiness in her eyes, the acceptance that she needs to do something she hasn't done in a very long time, something dark, something that is like a drug to her. It frightens her, the thought of killing again. She was good at it, loved it, and that is was scares her so much, the fact that she has no trouble taking a life, never has.

She hadn't noticed him approaching, almost forgot he was there until his hand grasps her shoulder, and then there it is again, that feeling, that tingling, and she is frozen, helpless, because whatever connection he has just made makes her feel alive, her veins pulsing, her body thrumming. He gasps, releases his hold, and she turns, meets his eyes, eyes that look shocked, and she feels naked, feels exposed, her breaths leaving and returning in quick succession.

"What?" She asks, eyes wide, but he doesn't need to tell her, she already knows what he saw.

"Regina," he starts, his voice tentative, but she doesn't want to hear anything he has to say, can already see the fear in his eyes.

"No," she says, squaring her shoulders, "Did you enjoy your little trip into my brain Robin?" She steps toward him, closing the small amount of space, "Could you feel what I feel? Or did you just get to watch?"

"Regina," he tries to speak again, and his gaze holds a kindness, a sympathy, and she thinks she might be sick, queasy from the pity he has for her.

She interrupts again, glares into his kind eyes, "That's right Robin. I'm a murderer." She says it with a smile, that mayor's smile that had failed her earlier, "I'm a cold blooded killer. So you see," she tilts her head to the side, "I know exactly how to 'prevent' this crime." She shifts, moves away from him toward her desk, and part of her hopes that he'll just leave, even if she knows it is in vain.

"Regina," he repeats, and she is getting tired of him saying her name, wants to interrupt again, but lets him continue, "what you are thinking of doing is dangerous. You could get yourself killed."

She scoffs, tells him that is absurd, that she knows what she is doing, and then he confirms her suspicions, tells her that she can't go back to that, and now she knows for sure that he saw her in the heat of a kill. "Why Robin? Why can't I go back to that?" She questions. "Did you feel it? Could you tell that I liked it, that I enjoyed killing?"

He stares at her, drops into the chair across from her desk, and she has a weird recollection, a deja vu, because this is exactly how she met him earlier today. Was it really just this morning?

"I saw you kill someone." He makes the statement so calmly, his eyes never leaving hers, "and I know exactly how it makes you feel, the thrill you get." He leans forward, rests his hands on her desk, "That is why you shouldn't do this."

Her anger is gone, the softness in his gaze seeping it from her, leaving only frustration, maybe some fear, but she won't admit that. "Robin, I have to do this," he starts to open his mouth, but she shakes her head, holds up a hand, "these criminals won't stop. They have murdered, robbed, and they will only continue to do so."

"We can have them arrested. You don't need to kill them." He says urgently, trying to convince her.

"Who do you think will arrest them Robin? And even if Graham did, even if they were captured and charged before hurting anyone at Granny's, they'll only be held for a few months. There was no evidence left behind at the previous robberies. They can't be charged for them, or for the murder. They'll be out of jail, planning their next heist, their next murder, and who will be to blame?" She pauses, nostrils flaring, and tries to slow her breathing before declaring, "I have to protect this city. I have to protect my son."

He is looking at her, comprehension in his eyes, but he still seems unswayed, and she doesn't want to fight with him, she won't, "I don't need your help with this Robin. You've given me the information I need, and that is enough. You can go. Your son and you can leave." She looks downward, shuffles with a file on her desk, and hopes he'll get the drift, that he'll dismiss himself.

"That's just it Regina. I haven't given you everything you need." She halts her movements, looks at him, brow furrowing, but before she can ask what he means he continues, "I haven't told you when this is going to happen."

Regina shifts in her seat, lips parting, and she wonders how she could have been so stupid, so dense, to overlook such an important detail. She is about to open her mouth, about to try and convince him, but he holds up his hand, bites his lower lip, and the look on his face has her nervous, anxious.

"I will tell you." He says, blue eyes meeting brown, and relief floods her mind, until, "but you have to let me help. You'll have to bring me along."

She hadn't been expecting that, blinks, shakes her head, "Like you said, it isn't safe. I can't take you,"

He stands, spurring her to do the same, but then he leans forward, his thighs brushing the front of her desk as he says, "The only way I'm telling you when the crime will take place, is if you take me along." He smirks then, a smug little thing, "besides, I'm good company."

She wants to say no, wants to tell him she'll figure it out on her own, but something about that smirk, something about him changes her mind, has her making a demand of her own. "Fine. You can come along as long as you get your son out of that shabby inn."

His brow furrows, eyes questioning, "Where do you propose we stay? Granny's is the only inn within twenty miles."

"I know." She says, and she really isn't certain about the next words that leave her mouth, but she is feeling spontaneous, brave even, "You'll stay with me." She lowers herself back into her chair, sits gracefully, straightening files, "Henry will enjoy having another child around, and that way Roland will be safe."

He nods, thanks her, and she thinks he is about to decline, but she doesn't give him the chance, tells him to get Roland, their belongings, and meet her back here at 5pm.

_Three days later_

That's what brings her here, brings her to this dark street, in this dark car, Robin beside her, trying to focus on his thoughts, visions, whatever you want to call it. It seems painful for him, and she can tell things are shifting, that each moment closer to the event, closer to their actions, well, her actions, alters everything.

His eyes are closed, and she is trying to stay calm, trying not to let excitement bubble in her nerves, trying not to let the thrill of a kill on the horizon overwhelm her, turn her into a monster of her own making. He shifts, eyes popping open, and then he is grabbing her arm, a firm grip, that firm grip just like the first day she met him, like their first handshake. "It's time Regina."

She nods, screws the silencer on her gun, and steps from the car quietly. She is trained, well trained, and as she slithers along the street, her figure, her shadow blend together, blend into the darkness of the road, of the building.

It goes fast, always does, one thing she remembers. The high doesn't last long, because the act of murder doesn't take long, at least, not the way she does it. It takes two bullets, two bullets for two men. They are easy to recognize, shifting along in the shadows just like her, and something about that unsettles her, makes her feel dirty, but then she thinks of Henry, thinks of Roland, the young boy she is quickly getting to know, and she thinks of the people she is protecting, the people Robin and her are saving.

It is quiet, she is quiet, and she leaves their bodies in that dark alley, lets their blood drench the cold, hard ground, and the momentary thrill is gone, the excitement smothered with a different emotion, with fear. By the time she is next to Robin again, closing the car door behind her, she is shaking, visibly frightened, and then his hand finds hers on her lap, fingers lacing, and the shaking stops, the fear fizzles into something else, into confidence, security.

They drive to the mayoral mansion that night, return to their boys tucked safely into beds, and for the first time in a long time, Regina feels safe, she feels like they are all safe, even if just for tonight.

_Please review, and let me know what you thought or if there are any one shots you'd be interested in._


	15. University

_**A prompt response to this; R u taking prompts? I have a great need for an OQ uni story where robin is the ruggedly handsome professor (like english or philosophy) and regina is this sassy, outspoken, argumentative student in his first year class that he can't help but be transfixed by**_

_**I wrote four mini chapters (all of which are below) and they switch between Regina and Robin's point of view. RATED M folks, especially the last two sections. :) Enjoy and let me know what you think.**_

He is sexy, no, not just sexy. Professor Locksley is ruggedly handsome, gorgeous, and those dimples, those piercing blue eyes, they have her contemplating thoughts and actions she really shouldn't. Not about her teacher anyway, not when she should be concentrating on his words, on the lecture, rather than the way his biceps flex beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, or how she wishes she wouldn't have sat five rows back on the far right.

He says something then, something positive and naive, something she wouldn't expect from a professor of ethics, and it has her eyes narrowing, her brow furrowing. His words are idealistic, impractical, and she can't help but roll her eyes. He is speaking of morality, of what makes a person a 'good' person, and she wonders vaguely if he truly believes these things, truly believes in the inherent 'goodness' of people.

She is hurriedly jotting down notes, trying to comprehend, trying to understand, but then she can't, her pen pauses mid-sentence, and she finds herself voicing her disagreement just so she won't have to listen to him spouting nonsense any longer. The other students turn her way, and his eyes find hers, those blue eyes, and they make her feel melty, feel warm and wet between the thighs, but she won't let that distract her.

"Do you truly believe people are inherently good?" She questions, brown eyes searching blue. "That people can be selfless?" She doesn't believe these things. Hasn't believed them since she was a child. A naive young child who hadn't yet faced the harshness of a mother who never loved her, a father who might as well have been absent, and the loss of the only person on this earth she ever felt was truly good, the only person who ever showed her love.

His eyebrows lifts slightly, and his gaze settles on her face, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips before he asks, "Well Miss," he pauses, waits for her to fill in the space, to give her name.

"Mills." She responds with an unamused tilt of her head. "Regina Mills."

"Hmm, well Miss Mills. I am not saying that we, as humans, are inherently good, but I am saying that we have the option. We have goodwill, unlike animals, we have a choice to act on that will." His words flow easily, his voice exudes confidence, security, and if she wasn't so used to the british accent from living in London for the last semester, she is sure that the lilt to his words would make her blush.

No matter how handsome she finds him, or his voice, she still can't believe what he is saying, can't understand his view. "You set us that far apart from animals? You don't believe we act for mere self preservation above all else?" Regina leans forward as she questions him, her forehead creasing in confusion, shock even, that anyone, especially someone as knowledgeable as a professor could honestly believe such a thing. "Are you really that idealistic?"

His smirk grows wide, and she finds it mildly irritating, condescending. She responds by leaning back, straightening her shoulders, and crossing her arms, an action that puts her cleavage clearly on display. His smirk falters, and she can track his gaze traveling downward, just for a moment, a moment that makes her feel like maybe she has the upper hand, and she briefly wonders what that says about her. Why she feels the need to feel in control of the situation, of most situations.

"Are you so cynical as to think otherwise?" He questions, and her jaw drops open, a response not quite prepared, just on the tip of her tongue, but he continues. "Kant's theory of goodwill supplies that our will is good as long as we act on something out of duty rather than inclination." He steps in her direction, walks to the edge of the seats until he is as close as he can be with her in the fifth row. "I understand that people do act out of their own inclination, that they do things to serve themselves, and themselves alone, but I also believe that people can act out of duty, act in accordance with moral law."

Her eyes are pinned to his, and she had almost forgotten about the class, had almost felt like there was nothing beyond the two of them, beyond this conversation, but then another student speaks. The young man's voice sounds from the opposite side of the lecture hall, and it has the professor's eyes lowering, then turning, and she slowly comes back to her surroundings, begins scrawling her notes, listening intently.

By the end of class her right hand is cramping, several pages of her notebook filled with some valuable information, some pointless, in her opinion. Professor Locksley made some interesting points, some valid ones, but throughout the past hour Regina found herself in disagreement more often than agreement. She thinks that should probably concern her, the way their differences of opinion could affect her grade, but at the moment all she can think of is coffee, a large, warm latte in fact, something to get her through her afternoon classes.

"Miss Mills?" His voice finds her ears, and now she knows she was wrong, now she notices that the accent she thought herself desensitized to is definitely attractive still, definitely affects her.

She looks up from her messenger bag, blindly closing it as she meets his eyes, and it is only now that she notices they are practically alone. Apparently she was thinking about coffee longer than she realized.

"Would you like to discuss the lecture?" He asks, lips lifting at the corners, dimples deepening on his cheeks.

She stands, smoothes the creases from her shirt, before lifting her bag to her shoulder. "I would," she says a smile pulling at her mouth, "but I'm afraid you would find most of my views in opposition with yours."

His smirk widens into a smile at that, a heartwarming smile that has her responding with a similar bright grin. "I think the world would be rather dull if we all agreed on everything Miss Mills."

She nods, lifts an eyebrow as she allows her eyes to travel over the structure of his lips, the stubble of his jaw. "True."

He gestures toward the door, steps aside, then says, "I was just about to get a cup of tea. Care to join me."

* * *

><p>He notices her immediately. She is wearing red, a deep crimson, and it suits her, draws his eye. Red in a pool of gray, of black and tan, of neutral tones and neutral faces. She stands out. She is stunning with dark flowing hair framing her face as she stares at her desk, at her notebook.<p>

He shakes his head, brings his focus back to the task at hand, back to teaching. He is her teacher, and he mentally scolds himself for the attraction he feels just from a mere glance in her direction. It isn't like he's new to this. This is his fourth semester teaching at King's College, his fourth semester as a philosophy professor, and he prides himself on his skill, on the way he can connect with students.

He knows part of that comes from his age. He is young, straight out of a master's program into teaching. The youngest of his students, like those in this first year ethics class, are only five years or so younger than him. Some of his older students are his age, but he is a popular professor, well liked, yet he has never, ever pursued a personal relationship with a student. He never intends to. Such conduct would be unethical.

She changes that. She makes him want to bury himself deep within her, kiss and caress her warm skin, wrap his fingers in her soft hair. Her words cut through the lecture hall, a deep, sultry voice, velvet flowing to his ears, and he had been able to divert his eyes before that, had been able to avoid looking and staring, but now his gaze is drawn once again, and for the first time, he can see the warm brown of her eyes looking back.

She disagrees with him, that is clear. Her words are cynical, negative, and she reminds him of himself. She reminds him of the man he used to be, of the young man who lost the love of his life in childbirth, the man who didn't want to live in a world without Marian, didn't know how to raise a son alone, but she has something he didn't; passion.

Passion exudes from her, pours forth like hot water from a spring, and it makes his lips curve up, makes him want to find out just how passionate she can be. That is, until she leans back in her seat, crossing her arms beneath her chest, providing him with an ample view of the supple curves of her body. He feels his cheeks heat, gulps audibly, and clears his throat before addressing her again.

They banter, and it is all too brief, interrupted by an eager young undergraduate who seems to be aiming to be teacher's pet. Little does the young man know, that position was filled the moment Regina Mills called him 'idealistic', the moment she questioned him with those plump, red lips, the moment she rolled those brown eyes.

He asks her to join him for tea, and she does, well, she gets a latte with an extra shot of espresso, and explains to him her need for caffeine if she is going to stay awake for Professor Leopold's course on classic literature.

"You don't like his class?" It surprises Robin, yet another thing that surprises him about Regina.

She smiles, sips at her latte leaving a faint red mark from her lips on the cup. "I do like the class," she responds, meeting his eyes as she sets her cup next to his, "well, I like the subject matter at least, but the Professor's teaching style is a bit," she pauses, thinking, "dull."

He knows Professor Leopold, and dull doesn't begin to describe him, not to mention his reproachable behavior with young, beautiful undergraduates. Robin has a moment of self-doubt, of insecurity, and he wonders if sharing this time with Regina makes him no different than the perverted old Professor he abhors, but then her hand is on his arm, his wrist, where his sleeve is lifted to reveal a tattoo, and the brush of her skin against his pumps blood to regions of his body long ignored.

"What's this?" She questions, and he explains the crest, the tattoo his father had, and his grandfather, and now him, explains that he hopes his own son will never feel obligated to do the same. He sees her eyes drop to his left hand, gaze searching for a ring, and he isn't sure what makes him open up to her, isn't sure why he shares, but he does.

He tells her of Marian, of Roland, his toddler, and she shares in turn, tells him of Daniel, her first love, and how he died too soon. It makes sense to him, her negative outlook on life, on people, and he wonders what else has happened to her, but then she is crossing her legs, her knee bumping his, and his mind is drawn to that knee instead. Drawn to her knees, and her thighs, and what lays between.

She knows he finds her attractive. That is clear, painfully obvious, but it is also clear how she blushes as they talk, how she wets her lips frequently, sliding her tongue between teeth and flesh, and how she smiles even when she is accusing him of being unrealistic and utopian. He laughs, tells her she is distrustful and skeptical, and she responds with exasperated sighs, sighs he wishes were made out of pleasure rather than irritation.

"I am." She states, and he tries to mentally catch up, wonders if he missed something while he was thinking of the silkyness of her hair.

"I'm sorry?" He questions, brow furrowing in confusion. She smiles, and he doesn't think he'll ever get tired of seeing her smile. It is glorious and bright, and passionate, everything about her is passionate.

"I am cynical," she sips at her drink again, "and skeptical, and distrustful. Everything you said, but," she looks at him, her brown gaze filtering beneath dark lashes.

"But?" He questions, inching closer to her, his voice lower.

"But, you make me feel less so," she smiles, blushes, and a rush of pride flows through his veins knowing he brought that color to her cheeks, "you make me feel less sardonic, more optimistic, almost hopeful."

He smiles at that, no, smirks, and he knows that this woman, that Regina, will have him questioning everything he thinks he knows.

* * *

><p>It takes three weeks. Three torturous weeks before Professor Locksley, or Robin as she has come to call him, finally touches her, finally does what she's been waiting for since the moment she first saw him.<p>

It's been weeks of arguing, of laughing, of flirting. Weeks of foreplay and banter, weeks of getting to know each other, and weeks of denying the sexual tension stretched tight between them. She is a rubberband stretched taught, has been waiting and waiting, and when Robin finally relents, she can feel her entire body snap with relief.

Hands coast across her skin, calloused fingers skimming and grasping, and his lips, those glorious lips are leaving hers, trailing a moist path down her chin, the column of her neck, and along the dip of her collarbone. She is eager, desperate even, her fingers unbuttoning, unfastening until she can feel his flesh, caress his toned torso, and he gasps against her neck at the contact.

The sound has her arousal heightening, even more wetness gathering where she is already slick and warm between her thighs, but she can feel him pulling back, feel him slowing down. She pushes her hips into his, grinds herself against his arousal, where he is solid and hard against her.

She knows what he is thinking, knows the argument he is about to make, because he has been making it since they first met. He tells her she is his student, that it isn't ethical, that he'd be taking advantage of her, and she tells him they have different views on ethics. That has been clear from day one, and she tells him how she wants to feel him inside of her, how they really are no different than animals, and all animals have urges that need to be sated.

"Regina." He whispers, her name slides passed his lips, and it makes her shiver, makes her hold up a finger to his mouth as they pull apart.

"Robin," she takes a step back from him then, lets his heated gaze travel the expanse of her almost naked body, "you are not taking advantage of me." She moves her hands, fingers finding the clasp of her bra, black lace, and she loosens it, lets the straps fall down her arms. "If anything, I'm the one taking advantage."

He swallows, eyelids fluttering closed as his breathing quickens noticeably. He leans against the desk behind him, finds some balance, and she can't help but appreciate the way his abdomen curves and flexes as he moves. She only wishes she had pushed the shirt all the way off his shoulders before stepping back and baring herself. She wants to see more, wants his biceps, his arms, wants to scrape her nails along the flesh of his back, wants to press kisses along the stubble of his jaw.

He stands there, those blue eyes slowly opening, and they aren't so blue now, darkened, almost black, and right now she is certain they aren't as far from the animal kingdom as he may think because he is looking at her with a carnal hunger, a hunger that makes her feel like his prey, prey that would willingly fall.

She smiles, a coy thing, and she can see it in his face, see his resolve completely fade away as she stalks toward him, quickly morphing from prey to hunter. "Professor?" She questions, chuckles at his reaction to the title, and brings a perfectly manicured nail to his chest, scrawling slowly across his skin as she speaks. "I'm quite willing to learn," she lifts both hands, pushes his unbuttoned shirt back, over his shoulders, lets her hands glide across his heated flesh, looking up at him through dark lashes, her eyebrow raising in challenge, "if only you'd teach me."

* * *

><p>He doesn't know how it came to this, when it came to this, but he isn't sure he cares, not with her body writhing in front of him, his cock buried deep inside of her. She is wet, so ungodly wet, and the slickness coats his thumb as he rubs her clit, massages her while he languidly moves his hips back and forth, in then out.<p>

She already came once. Bit her lip, muffling moans, while she came on his tongue, while her body squeezed and throbbed around his fingers. This isn't what he had in mind when he told her he'd be working late, grading papers into the wee hours of the morning. Granted, this is actually what he's had in mind since the moment he laid eyes on her, but he never planned on acting on it, not even when she made it clear that she wanted it as badly as him, not even when she showed up here tonight.

Then she stripped off her long jacket, revealed only strips of lace and soft skin beneath, and he couldn't contain himself, couldn't stop his feet from closing the distance, his hands from exploring, from finally feeling her silky tresses wrapped around his fingers.

He moves inside of her slowly, pushing forward until he can't get any deeper, pulling back until only the tip of his erection remains in her. This motion, this pace, has her fisting at the edge of the desk, her eyes squeezing shut with each thrust forward, and it allows him to hold back, allows him to watch her, bring her closer and closer to that edge without toppling over himself.

He wants her to come, wants to bring her pleasure, and he wants to be selfless, as selfless as possible in this situation that makes him feel very selfish, makes him want to take rather than give, but he doesn't. He gives, and he gives, and he hopes that she can sense his choice to please her above himself, hopes that she can feel that he would always put her first, will always put her first.

Her eyes open then, seek his, and something is so fragile about her. He knows that underneath all of her pessimistic babble she has a pure heart, a soul longing to trust, longing to remove itself from the disillusionment of the world she knows. He wants to give that to her, thinks perhaps he has, because he can see the trust in her eyes, he can see the mask she lets fall, shrivel, and fade.

"Robin, I'm, I'm going to," she is gasping, hips bucking out of rhythm, and so he grasps at her, holds her still while he pounds faster and harder, and she is coming around him, throbbing against his cock, sounds of ecstasy leaving her lips, expletives leaving his as he spills over, empties himself into her.

It is much later, after they dress, after they make it back to his apartment, and after they undress again that they lay in a nest of twisted sheets. That is when she confesses that she thinks he might be right, that there might be some good in some people, or at least, some goodwill.


	16. University Meet Leopold

_**Take 2 (I was having technical difficulties) Another little one-shot in the professor/student A/U verse. A guest requested Robin saving Regina from dirty old Prof Leopold. This isn't quite that but is lead up to something down the road. Enjoy! :)**_

It is Thursday, a bright Thursday afternoon, and Robin can't believe he has only known Regina for three days. Three days, three lectures, three conversations shared over beverages at King's Coffee Shop.

He is quite torn about the whole thing, feels like a letch, a dishonorable man, because even though he has done nothing inappropriate with his beautiful, intelligent student, he has thought about it. Truth be told, he has thought about it a lot.

Even now, as they walk along campus, he can't help but watch her mouth, her lush lips as she speaks. He hears the words, comprehends her disenchantment with the world, with people, with him and his ethical views, and he can even empathize. He felt the same way, after he lost Marian, he said the same things that are leaving Regina's gorgeous mouth.

"Consequentialism allows for reprehensible acts." She is walking beside him, debating the topic of today's lecture, arguing with him as usual, and he adores it, thrives on it, on her. "If the ends justifies the means, then you can justify deplorable actions, crimes, as long as the end result is morally acceptable. It is preposterous to think people act out of other's well-being rather than their own." She pauses then, halts her steps, and her eyes move to his, searching, and whatever she is seeking he wants to give her. He would gladly give her. If only he agreed with her.

"Moral judgements are decisions Regina, and must be made situationally." He moves to stand in front of her, only six inches of space between them, and the close proximity is something he's growing used to, too used to he thinks as he takes a step back. "Joseph Fletcher described it best. Only one thing is intrinsically good, namely, love, nothing else."

"Yes, but he had to define love." She states passionately, swaying closer to him, and his ears are listening to her words, but his eyes are transfixed to the scar on her lip, the scar he has seen in his dreams, touched in his dreams, three blissful nights of dreaming of Regina Mills. "He described it as a desire to promote the well-being of people, but that's just it Ro-" she pauses, catches herself about to use his name, and why shouldn't she, he's been using hers since the second day, "Professor Locksley. People don't act out of the well-being for others. They are either indifferent, or have malicious intent."

"That's not true Regina." He tilts his head, furrows his brow, and he hates whoever made her feel this way, made her think this way. He knows she lost her first love, knows Daniel died in a car accident when they were both seventeen, and she knows of his loss, of Marian's death during Roland's birth, but he can't believe that she has such a negative outlook on life due to that one loss. He knows there is more, can sense it, but he won't press her. No, he wouldn't dream of it, but he will try to convince her she is wrong, that people are not so evil.

"Regina," he is lost in those brown eyes, mentally preparing his argument, but he doesn't get the chance to voice it.

"Ah, Professor Locksley." The voice comes from behind him, a familiar voice, and Robin releases a sigh, let's his eyes close briefly before turning and greeting Professor Leopold.

"Professor, lovely day isn't it?" He can be pleasant with the man. He dislikes him, finds him repugnant, but he can exchange polite remarks about the weather without showing his disgust.

"Quite lovely I'd say." The man responds, but his eyes are on Regina, not Robin, and the way he says lovely implies he is not talking about the day at all.

Robin feels his blood heating, his fists clenching, and he thinks it funny, finds it odd that he has no trouble being polite to this despicable man in any other context, but with the way the old pervert is eyeing Regina, he feels ready to land a punch in the older man's face.

"And who is this beautiful young lady?" Leopold questions, and Robin nearly finds himself stepping to block Regina from the other man's view, but she moves first, steps forward, lifting her hand.

"Regina Mills," she takes the wrinkly old letches hand in hers, and the thought of their skin touching has Robin biting his tongue, his lungs expelling and retrieving breaths at a hurried pace, "I'm in your classic literature class Professor Leopold."

"Ah, of course." The old Professor smiles, and looks as if he is about to address Regina again, but she abruptly turns to Robin, thanks him for the discussion, and bids them both a good day before walking away at a brisk pace, the wind blowing her hair to the side. He notices her hair a lot, too much, and he shakes the mental image of her mouth parting, releasing gasps of pleasure while he kisses along her jaw, fingers clenching in that soft hair. He shakes it away, and focuses once again on the man in front of him, the man who is still watching Regina.

"Hmm. Well isn't she something?" Leopold questions.

Robin clenches his jaw, does step in the older man's eyeline this time, blocking her departing figure from view. "She is a student."

The man smiles, a filthy thing, yellow stained teeth glinting in the sun. "But that is what makes them so tempting Professor," he is speaking softly, almost a whisper, "forbidden fruit." Then with a wink he departs.

Robin can feel bile rise in his throat, turns to look in the direction Regina took to leave, and he swears he won't let that dirty bastard near her, won't let him add another to the long list of people who must have already hurt her.

_**Review and let me know what you think or if there is anything you'd like to read.**_


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